Announcements: Cutting Costs (2024) » January 2024 Copyfraud Attack » Finding Universes to Join (and making yours more visible!) » Guide To Universes On RPG » Member Shoutout Thread » Starter Locations & Prompts for Newcomers » RPG Chat — the official app » Frequently Asked Questions » Suggestions & Requests: THE MASTER THREAD »

Latest Discussions: Adapa Adapa's for adapa » To the Rich Men North of Richmond » Shake Senora » Good Morning RPG! » Ramblings of a Madman: American History Unkempt » Site Revitalization » Map Making Resources » Lost Poetry » Wishes » Ring of Invisibility » Seeking Roleplayer for Rumple/Mr. Gold from Once Upon a Time » Some political parody for these trying times » What dinosaur are you? » So, I have an Etsy » Train Poetry I » Joker » D&D Alignment Chart: How To Get A Theorem Named After You » Dungeon23 : Creative Challenge » Returning User - Is it dead? » Twelve Days of Christmas »

Players Wanted: Serious Anime Crossover Roleplay (semi-literate) » Looking for a long term partner! » JoJo or Mha roleplay » Seeking long-term rp partners for MxM » [MxF] Ruining Beauty / Beauty x Bastard » Minecraft Rp Help Wanted » CALL FOR WITNESSES: The Public v Zosimos » Social Immortal: A Vampire Only Soiree [The Multiverse] » XENOMORPH EDM TOUR Feat. Synthe Gridd: Get Your Tickets! » Aishna: Tower of Desire » Looking for fellow RPGers/Characters » looking for a RP partner (ABO/BL) » Looking for a long term roleplay partner » Explore the World of Boruto with Our Roleplaying Group on FB » More Jedi, Sith, and Imperials needed! » Role-player's Wanted » OSR Armchair Warrior looking for Kin » Friday the 13th Fun, Anyone? » Writers Wanted! » Long term partner to play an older male wanted »

Freedom Forsaken

a topic in Fantasy Roleplay, a part of the RPG forum.

If you would like to make your own roleplay based in a fantasy realm (dragons, elves, magic), use this forum. You will be in charge of all things related to your roleplay, so you're on your own here.

Re: Freedom Forsaken

Tips: 0.00 INK Postby WindOnFire on Thu Apr 21, 2011 11:17 pm

((Eadmar))

Standing to take the tray of food from the chef, Eadmar nodded his thanks and set it down onto the table, taking a small amount for himself. He grinned at the boy, inwardly resigning himself to attempting to keep up with the rapid chatter all by himself.

“We fight each other during training, but that’s only to help us get better.” He had to squeeze in sentences while Hylas was chewing, and he had barely shut his mouth before Hylas continued.

“I had a girlfriend once, Millie, she was called. We used to play in the trees ‘cause she was a Sciuridae shifter - squirrels and things.” The little shifter glanced around and lowered his voice. “Don’t tell anyone but I actually used to get a bit scared. But I went up the tallest tree in the wood, because she was the prettiest girl I’d ever seen. All my mates was jealous ‘cause Millie liked me so much. How cool’s that?”

“Very cool." But before he could cut him off, Hylas was off at a hundred miles per hour again.

"Why did the Rau-lass come here? Didn’t they like their home? ‘Cause I miss my home and I know I’m far away, but I’m not as far away as they are. Are they jealous like the big boys ‘cause our home is really lovely and we have the Lady and all that and they don’t have nice things? ‘Cause that would explain why they’re being mean to all of us. They don’t have the Lady. I’ve seen her. The lady they say prayers to. When they first came to our village, one of the demon ladies said a name and held up a necklace with a picture on it. She said that she - the lady in the picture - had chosen to spare us an eternity of... of something – I can’t remember what it was. But it must’ve been bad because Old Man Max (we used to call him Mad Max; he was a pig, you know – a bearded one), well he said that no hell bitch Goddess was going to tell him what to do and that the Queen could do something to his chicken. I didn’t understand that last bit but the demon lady got really angry and she-” The boy finally stopped, and Eadmar reached over to place a comforting hand on his shoulder. The boy then leaped up, waving at someone. Eadmar turned to look. “Hey, Selan, look – I saved you some food! Eadmar and I were just planning on how to kill the demons.” Hylas sat and looked back at Eadmar. “That is what we’re here for, right?”

“Yes, Hylas. He smiled at the boy quickly, and looked back up as Selan approached. When she sat down, she spoke loudly enough for the whole room to hear, surprising everyone with her boldness, and the mention of magic. He barely had time to think about her statement before she turned to him.

"Eadmar, thanks for the information before... as you see I came back quite quickly... I dismissed the idea of 'playing with swords here'. We'll have plenty of time to do that, in the future, with people who deserve our iron, instead of friends, so I didn't talk to the head guard... but still, thank you for your pointers. On my way there I was able to realize of a few important things about myself, so that was very welcome. Oh, by the way, I haven't seen Fiala here, where did she go? I thought she would be with you two here. And do you know anything about how the preparations are going? All I know is that they're taking place right now, but obviously I am a newcomer here, so I would not be informed of everything. I don't know how things are going, and I was wondering if you would... well, know anything about that?"

He sighed silently. Apparently both of them had a habit of talking excessively. It was more than he was used to. “Fiala went outside for some air, and right now we are basically training and scouting, picking off stray Rau-lass or small groups, and tracking their movements. We are gathering members and supplies, but beyond that, I am not privy to any plans.” He fingered the short sword at his waist. “I think we may begin the attack in earnest soon, but that may just be my hate of the invaders speaking.”

((Fiala))

“Fiala, huce, dan 'yar'uwarsa! It’s all good. Our little gibbon-friend here has just evaded his own death with legs quicker than the Lady’s own. Just so happens he’s lost all his worldly possessions in the chase. He needs a friendly face to greet him, not eyes like steel and a voice like glass. Have some pity for the poor soldier!” She sighed-although she couldn’t quite remember his name, she remembered hisslightly annoying sense of humor. “To, ƙumbuna wawa kuma sun firgita, sun gudu. We’ve seen no sign of enemies all day. I’ve sent the rhino and the bird out to scout, but I don’t expect they’ll find anything other than monkey-boy’s mess. I was going to take him downstairs but my shift’s not over yet. I guess now you’re here, you can take him to Lord Kariff instead; they should be done with the stock now and they'll want to see him.” She groaned inwardly-why her? She had had a comfortable relationship with the authority up until now-a nearly nonexistent one.

“Actually,” here he switched back to a far more common language, “I thought I heard Lady Nala’s still in the garden sanctuary, overseeing the last of the harvesting. Why don’t you take our new friend Tekket to her first. I have no idea where Tarron is, so you may as well.” She couldn’t help a little laugh when he winked and continued. “Don’t forgot to come back to visit, eh fulawan zuma?” She strode forward, glaring at the newcomer once again.

“Why is it always me?” She replied, in his language. “I was so looking forward to a nice...what’s the word...quiet?..flight. But I’ll take him if I must. At least I don’t have to go back into that death trap again.” She tossed her head proudly, and spoke in the common tounge for this region. “Well then, Tek Tek, come with me. Any funny business and I’ll shift into a harpy eagle. Do you know what that is?” She glanced down again-with the other on the ground, even she could look down at him. Leaning in to his face, she smiled, showing all of her teeth. “It’s a very big bird that preys on small mammals-mainly, monkeys. And its very fast. So do us both a favour and come along quietly.” She stood. “Come.” She walked quickly in the direction of the garden, only glancing back long enough to say, “See you later, whiskers!” In the feline shifter’s language.

Tip jar: the author of this post has received 0.00 INK in return for their work.

User avatar
WindOnFire
Member for 15 years
Promethean Conversation Starter Author Inspiration World Builder Conversationalist Novelist Lifegiver

Re: Freedom Forsaken

Tips: 0.00 INK Postby Alacer Phasmatis on Sat Apr 30, 2011 6:46 pm

((Lysander, skipping forward to the same day as Pyrei))

“It’s odd, to say the least,” Lysander drolly remarked, exhaling in marked boredom; with a casual flip of his hair, he turned his handsome regard to the border that continued to, vexingly, dominate the brunt of their discussion. In the deep blue of morning before dawn, the trees held their beauty to a new level, eldritch and lovely as a second race of elves.

“Odd?” Darragh scoffed. “It’s blatantly wrong, more like. I doubt they don’t understand me, they just won’t talk to me. Nor to Aoise, to deepen matters.” With a modest degree of hauteur at the elf’s consternation, his companion sardonically drawled, “woe to you indeed, for I should hope to never fall into such straits as to be fraught with dismay were the vermin of the forest to prove poor conversationalists.”

The other was silent, a pensive gloved hand stroking the pouch of his flute. The sight of Darragh engaged in thought generally had and perhaps always would peeve Lysander Ælfher, for there was nothing quite as offensive as the unvoiced ponderings of an intellectual lesser, even if that lesser were one’s own foster-brother. Simply observing the slow formation of thought, the almost ritualistic groan of mental cogs straining to fill a track that had been trod on numerous times already, and would be tread upon again—when just a word of guidance from Lysander could set Darragh onto the correct line of thought, if Darragh just damn well voiced his musings—was that not evidently rankling? Particularly when in the crepuscular blue of the early day, shadows drew out beneath his heavy brow and blackened his dark hair to lend him an honestly brooding cast.

The hunter twisted about with sudden alacrity, eyes glinting moonlight in the new angle. “Lysander,” he murmured, voice so soft that the motion of his throat was nearly an equal component of the sound. “Aoise scented someone.” The mage’s noble gaze swept over the dog, then to the direction indicated. The canine’s yellow eyes were wide with doggish concern—shy as she was, she’d react thus with any stranger, be it friend or foe, so her quivering whiskers and terse, wrinkled muzzle were hardly affirmative signs of threat. The two lords dismounted nigh simultaneously, with cautious hands on the bridles of their steeds lest a stirring hoof or sudden fright give away their location.

With a second glance to the area—straining his ears, Lysander could hear nothing—the mage watched as Darragh whispered a question into Aoise’s velvet ear and the creature replied, incapable of modulating her low growls as well as the elf had.

Shifting closer to Lysander, Darragh whispered, “it’s a human. No Rau-lass, she thinks.”

“Easy to mess with a dog’s mind,” Lysander sniped in an undertone, creeping forward with a crouching cat’s stalk. Darragh hesitated, then murmured softly, “why follow?”, as in, why not just move on beyond an inconsequential wayfarer until we're past them?

Lysander replied in acid quietude, “again, it’s easy to mess with a dog’s mind. If an enemy agent were trailing us?” Darragh shook his head sparely. “No Rau-lass are this far north,” he murmured, “no strategic point in it, when they’re sweeping from the south.”

“And where do little child-experiments come from?” the Ælfher growled. “Even elves are corruptible; it was an elf-mage and a human who were on Signum and Foertis’s tails when they managed to get Fionnoula and Murtagh. Perhaps we’re near kidnapping lowlife’s den.”

“Incomplete thought process, poor validation of investigation,” Darragh hissed back. “You won’t cross a waterfall, but you’ll go check out a human for mere curiosity?”

Lysander’s lip curled, but he did not deign to respond. With a roll of his eyes, Darragh murmured, "don't risk yourself," and somehow managed to adroitly sprint ahead of him with nary an excess sound, leaping to the mid-hanging branch of a tree and ascending out of sight, a shadowy silhouette. Lysander grit his teeth angrily; the fool didn’t even pause to consider that perhaps magic would serve him better than athletic fortitude—but any concern for his reckless idiot was soon allayed by the very man’s hoarse voice rising in alarm, heedless of nonelvish ears.

“Lysander!” He barked, kneeling beside an inert mound—a mound with an arm, which he held lightly extended, an ungloved hand pressing two fingers to the wrist. “It’s a human child, and—“

Looking down at the slender, unconscious form, Lysander changed the finish. “—She looks like she was running very quickly away from something and hit her head.”

Damn the stars. More children underfoot.

Lysander swore silently that if she was anything like Caelen, he would strangle the human whelp and deal with the consequences later.
Image

Tip jar: the author of this post has received 0.00 INK in return for their work.

Alacer Phasmatis
Member for 16 years
Promethean Conversation Starter Author Conversationalist Lifegiver

Re: Freedom Forsaken

Tips: 0.00 INK Postby Hedya on Sun May 01, 2011 6:26 pm

((Pyrei))

Music fills Pyrei's ears. It is a music she knows very well. Every year, when the harvest season began, festivities started at her hometown. Everyone was happy, music and dancing were all people did, during a few days, thanking their Gods for the past year and praying for a good harvest season for next year. During that time, the town felt like a big family, and everyone was cheerful. Pyrei remembered being a quite good dancer, back in the day. For a little child, that is. She was always so happy with her friends there, and the whole group actually enjoyed dancing so much, during those times.

As music goes on, her hometown becomes darker, as the sun reaches the end of its daily cycle, and the darkness of the night engulfes everything that Pyrei gets to see. She can still see some light inside the various houses of the town, from the main square, where she now stands. Her friends wave goodbye, and rush to their places. Pyrei stops for a moment, thinking of her own place. Why can't she remember how to reach it? She wanders aimlessly for a few minutes, before realising she really doesn't remember where her place is. It is then, that everything grows even darker. She hears some howling. Is that a dog? A wolf, perhaps? She can not tell, as her whole body aches. Soon, she stands up, rubbing her eyes, and is able to see her hometown, again. It's dawn, already. The sun is coming back; it's time to rejoice, but for some reason, this sun seems tainted.

The day is not clear, mist is very low, this morning, and where Pyrei should hear men working, she hears nothing. Not even the wind, not even the smalles insects making sounds, or the chirping birds. Nothing. She walks around the town, from where she is, now, until she reaches the main square at its center. It is only then, that she realizes that the houses are empty. She can not see inside, but the whole town feels lifeless. The windows reveal not darkness, inside the houses, but a black emptiness. Pyrei looks up at the sky, and she looks around. The light is not natural. Everything looks reddish, and for some reason her sight gets numb, whenever she looks at the sky, and she is unable to see anything, for a short while.

As soon as she is able to open her eyes again, and see what's around her, Pyrei finds herself inside the main building of New Oestin. It is a building that replicates the biggest and most beautiful building that existed in Old Oestin. From this building, Pyrei's companions take care of the whole city. Hande does a great job. The job that Lak used to take care of. He was, after all, their leader. He still is, in a way, right? They used to fight, and Pyrei used to be so different, back in the day. She's changed, she's become a bit more mature, a bit more calm, but she's also overcome her moments of sadness. She knows that, nowadays, she is probably a normal girl, already, which is something she's happy about. Even if normal girls at her age wouldn't be a soldier and would be proeficient with a sword. But other than that...

Pyrei looks around, admiring the beauty of every little decoration inside the room she is at. Certainly, Jahz has done a good job, in reconstructing the buildings. Was Oestin always as beautiful? Pyrei wouldn't know, but after all, New Oestin was her home, already. Pyrei hears rain outside, a strong storm is happening outside. Water is hitting the window panels really hard. Soon, Pyrei identifies a lightning, and she covers her ears, knowing that a thunder is coming next. The booming sound happens not long after that, and the windows break. Pyrei closes her eyes. Her head hurts, and she hears male voices, at a certain distance. "Ungh..."

Pyrei tries moving, but her body won't respond. She feels her head becoming heavier, and for some time -she wouldn't be able to say how much- she gives up, and waits for a while, only hearing her own heavy breathing. Finally, she opens her eyes again, and sees a rundown tavern around her, with noisy people talking loudly, and drinking alcohol. Where has Pyrei seen that scene before? She is unable to remember, and because of the way everything looks in there, she opens the main door and leaves the place. The beaming sun makes her eyes hurt, as she walks outside. What kind of city is this? It almost looks as though the city where she is, now, is built over a huge bridge over an even bigger river. The image makes no sense, and Pyrei knows something's off. She hasn't seen this place, before.

Suddenly, the mist Pyrei saw before appears again, and she feels dizzy. She has to lean against a building, as her senses go numb, once again. She's unable to see anything. But, for the first time in so long, she feels some warmth against her skin. Someone, or something, is touching her hand, her wrist. She feels a male voice, nearby. She opens her mouth, trying to make a sound. Who is this person near her, in this strange city? Before she can even think about it, Pyrei passes out, again.
Image
Strength is not the answer, I can tell you that.

Tip jar: the author of this post has received 0.00 INK in return for their work.

User avatar
Hedya
Member for 16 years
Promethean Conversation Starter Author Inspiration Conversationalist Friendly Beginnings Lifegiver

Re: Freedom Forsaken

Tips: 0.00 INK Postby ShadowWake on Mon May 02, 2011 8:56 am

((Phoenix/Rebel Group))

“We’re going the wrong way!” came the almost inaudible whisper through the trees behind her, irritation clear in the hissing tone. Almost to the point past caring, Phoenix directed the wolves deeper into the coppice using hand signals and turned, pacing quickly back to the group hidden among the early morning shadows. Remus had already taken his sister to one side in yet another attempt to pacify her, but Tibault remained where she had left him, arms folded as he met her gaze with a offhand shrug.

“The village isn’t far,” she told him as she approached, voice low, “but I’ve sent the pack to investigate. There may be a hunter’s croft or outlying farm nearby; I want to make sure we have all angles covered before we go any further.”

She flicked a downy feather away from her face, loosened as the barmaid planted her skinny frame beside her, slim hands framing her narrow hips in familiar impatience. “If you’re so uncertain, then why come here at all?” Lari spat in response. “If you didn’t know already, the Rai’alssa are heading North. I would suggest that we avoid going in the same direction.” The innkeep rolled his eyes visibly as Phoenix turned her gaze on on him in exasperation before facing the antagonist.

“We cannot ignore a village on our route,” she stated again for good measure, desperately attempting to keep her temper in control. The ex-bowyer had not taken well to being given orders by a human – let alone one she clearly still didn’t trust. Of the twins, it had been the one scarred – Remus – who had been the more trusting, but unfortunately and despite all efforts, his conviction only seemed to enflame the young faery’s anger further. Tibault, while professing his belief in her story, clearly had no desire to get himself involved in the argument, leaving Phoenix to repeat her reasoning nearly every mile of their search in the hopes that this time would be the one to sink in. And it was getting wearing. “You forget that retrieving information is as good as finding allies. If we can just get to the outskirts-”

“-the Rai’alssa will find us and we’ll all be dead.” The faery interrupted with a growl, her pinion feathers puffing in threat as she bent to push her face within a few inches of Phoenix’s. “And who will we have to blame for that? The human soldier who calls herself a ‘rebel’, yet deals in shadows and disguise, and professes herself in love with a faery of all things, who-“

“Enough!” Phoenix snapped through clenched teeth, fighting down the want to draw her sword. “Insult me, distrust me; frankly, I really don’t care. But unless you mean to take your leave, I will not hear you speak of him on those terms in my presence.”

Taking a step back, Lari opened her mouth to speak, but her brother’s wing graced hers briefly, clearly in the hope of calming her. “Lari...” he warned in a gentle tone. Instead, the action seemed to embolden her further and the faery woman took another step backwards, nose curling in disgust as she sook off her twin’s touch. “Only a vile faery traitor would-“

“Would what?” Phoenix hissed, her temper fraying rapidly at the edges as she kept herself incredibly still in the hopes that it would help control her anger. She cursed her own soft nature for telling them of Argenti in the first place. But it had been hard; Remus, it seemed, had a way with words and he had caught her on a night in which her companion’s presence had been sorely missed. “Would what, Lari? Would seek out the woman he loved when she was in danger? Would refuse to follow the orders of his commander? Yes, faery,” she shot, noting the sudden uncertainty in the barmaid’s gaze, “what does your bond say about that?”

“It won’t last.” Snorting her dislike, Lari turned away, slow enough so that Phoenix heard her comment. Though before she could retalliate – and by the sun did she want to retalliate – Tibault placed his meaty hand firmly on her shoulder. “Your wolves are back girl,” he rumbled mildly, turning her to face the skulking pack.

Heaving a short sigh, Phoenix gave the man a look of annoyance, bending to accept a token from Bran’s jaws. Frowning, she stood, using her finger to smooth out the glossy vane and raising her gaze to meet the innkeep’s, she obligingly handed the dark feather over to Remus’ outstretched hand.

“Definitely faery,” he said curiously, “Adult. But...” He brought the wolves’ prize closer to his good eye. “But it looks clipped.”

Phoenix frowned. The falconers at the keep occasionally clipped an injured bird’s wings to stop it from harming itself in flight, but she’d never heard of it being done to faeries. Perhaps there were Rau-lass in these parts after all? Not willing to stay to find out, Phoenix indicated silently for her companions to follow. Catching Lari’s suspicious gaze, she shook her head. “Just keep your eyes open,” she whispered resignedly, and plunged into the undergrowth, wolves following.

Tip jar: the author of this post has received 0.00 INK in return for their work.

User avatar
ShadowWake
Member for 16 years
Promethean Conversation Starter Author Inspiration Conversationalist Friendly Beginnings Lifegiver

Re: Freedom Forsaken

Tips: 0.00 INK Postby Alacer Phasmatis on Thu May 05, 2011 9:05 pm

((RĂșmil Æd-DrĂŠden))

“RĂșmil. RĂșmil.”

He turned from the dusty windows with their bleak light and despondent view. A small sound escaped his throat, something close to a yes? but lacking heart and life, the vitality having had been long drained from his hands, eyes and silver tongue. “Fiacre, Fechín, and Lonán have flown back without Lótharn’s band.”

The crows. An intelligent light entered the muted elf’s eyes at these words, assuming the grim reduction of his lonely brooding could be described thus. The corners of his mouth wrinkled boyishly, his hopeful smile as bright and displaced in the saturnine room as a blue-jay among ravens. “Thank you. You know what to do.”

The informer departed.




Intelligent green eyes glittered at RĂșmil with sparing focus, peering over steepled hands and a strong, aquiline nose. When Niall Ælfher spoke, it was with the winging mellowness of a bard’s sonority, and the glow of his hair and flesh brightened the very dust of the vaulted stonework; though he lapsed quickly into silence, the pulse of life clung both to him and his companions. He was quiet now. LĂ­le and Aelia remained on either side of him, dissonant, female, and peculiar. With her equally engaged and contained air, her striped falcon wings and her nutshell skin, Aelia seemed more shifter-tribe than faery-strong; LĂ­le herself seemed oddly standoffish and subservient in a blow. The different dress and unpigmented aspect of her mien did much to further this impression, but what constructed it was her mannerisms—she didn’t speak nor seem to refer to Niall for much; her eyes took sweeping stock of all the hall’s features for what appeared to be little more than private assessment; and the interaction of the children with her versus the faery and elf-lord divided her yet more. RĂșmil would have thought greatly over this, had he not met Diarmuid Ælfher. Instead he wondered curiously at the sort of characters this red-haired lord associated with.

After they had done with feeding on the scant givings available, RĂșmil asked to speak with Niall alone—or rather, heavily implied it. He cannot be too thickly embroiled in his family’s affairs, the elf reflected upon observing the other’s mixed expression to his slinking words. Nonetheless, Niall’s voice was sweet and light as he gave reply. “I should greatly enjoy further discourse with you, Lord-Regent DrĂŠden,” he spoke with fair civility, “but it would be all the better and more enjoyable if it should be not between us alone, but were to include my companions as well; I will keep no secrets from them.”

A small frown pulled on the corners of RĂșmil’s mouth. I will not necessarily have much to tell him, he acknowledged, but neither does it bode well to have three pairs of eyes watching me. An air lingered about the elf-lord, which RĂșmil suspected he wouldn’t express if he could help it, of inexperienced naivetĂ©. Both Aelia and LĂ­le lacked this.

“Far be it from me to impose on you, Lord Ælfher,” RĂșmil stated, adopting a frankness to mirror the addressed elf’s own, “but it is a breach of court custom, and we have not so forgotten the Ædellic line that we would disrespect those methods of etiquette maintained by them.”

“The curious thing,” Niall reflected, almost as though forgetting he spoke aloud, “is that I have no way of knowing this for certain.” RĂșmil knew from their earlier conversation that LĂ­le Eiryn was Niall’s scribe, guard, and perhaps friend; it would be expected that he’d want her to stay by him. Perhaps Aelia could remain back, given her extended relationship to Niall solely through long friendship with LĂ­le, but being rid of the scribe would be difficult to justify. To his fortune, Niall seemed to prefer openness over honesty with his companions; the light of decision behind his eyes, a gentle word of dismissal to them both, and he was on RĂșmil’s tracks as though there had never been pause.

((TBC tomorrow from Niall's perspective))

Tip jar: the author of this post has received 0.00 INK in return for their work.

Alacer Phasmatis
Member for 16 years
Promethean Conversation Starter Author Conversationalist Lifegiver

Re: Freedom Forsaken

Tips: 0.00 INK Postby ShadowWake on Mon May 30, 2011 9:54 am

((Aerain))

Aerain Luelia!

With a choking gasp, the faery’s amber eyes snapped open, short fingernails scrabbling against the rough tree bark in an effort to haul herself upright. Pain – sharp and white-hot – stabbed through her right wing; clutching the hurt like a lifeline, Aerain grit her teeth against the scream and heaved herself onto her feet, sparing a moment to press her sweat-drenched forehead against the hard wood. Her mind seemed like treacle. Morteza Melchios. Heart constricting in betrayal, a small cry of anguish escaped her lips. What had he done? What had she done? They had no chance... they had never had any chance.
--------

She had not known until she had seen him what had happened to their magic, and when she did, it was though her head had been held under icy water; even as he had cut them down, slicing a swathe through her elven companions, she had stood speechless, gasping, virtually crippled by the screaming injustice as her magic shrieked through her soul. It was wrong – WRONG! Here – here! – was the man who had trained her – trained them all – to defend, to protect! How could he, with those cold, ruthless serpents at his side, call her by that most vile of sins! That he should betray them all so! To side with death and pain and utter relentless destruction... The pain in her heart was like no fire she had known before.

With a roar of wordless rage that seemed to boil up inside her, Aerain had slammed the butt of her bloody spear into the hard stone, launching herself into the air with powerful drags of her dark wings. Ignoring the hollow absence of magic, the faery warrior screamed her lord’s name – oblivious to the tears of furious hurt that ran unencumbered down her tattooed cheeks – and heaved her spear at his heart, throwing all her weight behind it.

---------

Trembling with the effort, Aerain opened her eyes, twisting her head against the tree to gaze at her spear as it lay on the ground like a black viper. Bending slowly, left arm still wrapped tightly around her woody companion and right wing draping uselessly on the damp mulch, she ran her free fingers lightly over the inscription. Taking a shuddering breath, she gathered her resolve, wrapping her hand around the dark stave and using it as an aid to help her stand free of the huge beech. Drizzle was already filtering through the heavy foliage above her and the faint glow through the trees suggested the sun still sat on the horizon. Dusk, she surmised by the quality of the light, and her heart sank. How many hours had she been unconscious for this time?

Wracking her brain as she pushed away from the rough security of the tree trunk, Aerain began stumbling with leaden feet through the gloomy forest, narrowed golden gaze surveying her surroundings. She didn’t recognise the landscape; though for a mountain-bred faery whose eyes were used to solid stone and open sky, that fact alone didn’t say much. Some of the leaves she saw, she couldn’t even identify – though all were primarily deciduous, occasionally her wanderings took her around the spindly branches of cedar-like pines that towered in clumps above the rest. Gripping her spear tighter, she thought of home and carried on.

-------

Her throw had missed of course. The traitor had used his own delicate appendages and simply skipped aside, strong fist catching the end of her weapon as it breezed past and aiding its flight into the woodland behind him. As she had drawn her twin swords, Morteza – the fallen lord – had laughed. Mad and cold and calm all at once, the sound of his laughter only flared her fury further and she had launched herself at his muscled form, spitting curses like a wildcat...

-------

Tossing her head in confusion, Aerain brought a shaky hand to her brow, noting its clammy heat. Why couldn’t she remember? Pausing for a moment’s respite, the warrioress assessed her trembling limbs, noting the crusted blood that lay in stripes across her wing. Lifting her feathers, she gently touched one of the wounds and instantly felt a wave of sick dizziness wash over her. Great. She knew without checking that she wasn’t strong enough to rid her body of the infection; even now – with all that had happened – it still rankled her pride that she wasn’t strong enough. She hadn’t even been strong enough for her friend.

--------

She could still hear Caera’s shriek of anger and pain as one of her family was torn savagely in two, blade ripping through a gap in his armour and rending the hours worked on the metal useless. Below her own private battle, elves screamed and died, grasping at their missing magic like a drowning man for air. Spinning helplessly in the air, mind searching for some form of tactic, Aerain watched as each man was cut down like wheat before a storm; a backhanded blow from Melchios caught her temple and then all she could see was the ground, slick and bloody and writhing with the dying.

Twisting in her fall, Aerain had managed to slow herself down enough to land on her feet, albeit heavily, boots almost sliding from under her, and grasped hold of the nearest elf. He looked barely more than a boy with his youthful features. “Signal the retreat!” she hollered at his blank face, “Godsdamnit, man – the retreat!” Shoving him bodily, she pointed towards the forest, trying desperately to remember the elvin word. ”Get Altair!” she gasped frantically in pidgin elvish, “Find Altair!” The elf turned to sprint: only fifteen yards away he slipped on the corpse of his brethren and a Raí’alssa blade embedded itself into his skull.

-------

Dropping her spear, Aerain fell to her knees upon the damp leaf-litter, retching. Once her stomach had finished purging its contents – meagre though it was – she crawled over to prop her shaking body against the nearest tree roots, leaning her head back and closing her eyes. She had seen war before, but she could feel the sickness in her body and heart eating away at her resolve. She thought of Terailan then – of his easy smile and strong hands, of the way he laughed at her frowns – and wished she had told him why.

“Because no matter how many I kill,” she whispered to herself tiredly, surprisingly devoid of tears, “I will never be strong enough to bring him back.” Opening her gaze to stare blankly at the canopy, she corrected herself. “To bring them back.” A sudden memory surfaced, though her illness stole the knowledge of whom had said it. ”Firebird isn’t a weapon or a tool, faery, she is a woman.” Feeling a pang of hatred, Aerain fiercely pushed herself upright, ignoring the wobble of her legs and deep throb of pain from her injured wing. Who was she, to sit and moan, while there were others who had more right?

Besides, there was still one man who was owed an answer. ” I will hold you responsible.” Baring a teeth in a final grimace as she bent to collect her spear from the ground, the faery took a moment to still her features. She would find Lysander, she vowed, or would die trying. Her pride would allow nothing else.

Face once more expressionless, Aerain took a deep breath and set off into the encroaching darkness once more.

Tip jar: the author of this post has received 0.00 INK in return for their work.

User avatar
ShadowWake
Member for 16 years
Promethean Conversation Starter Author Inspiration Conversationalist Friendly Beginnings Lifegiver

Re: Freedom Forsaken

Tips: 0.00 INK Postby Alacer Phasmatis on Sun Jun 05, 2011 7:45 pm

((Niall/RĂșmil))

I hope Lilith and Anahita understand, Niall thought as he took a seat across from RĂșmil, because if there’s something these people don’t want to say around them, they won’t. It was unsettling, though, to be without Diarmuid. RĂșmil was silent and Niall took his lead; a moment later he understood why, as LĂłtharn came in after them. His forest garb had not been changed, but he was somewhat less aloof as he bent his head to Niall and kissed RĂșmil’s hand.

The three passed a moment in loaded silence. Niall broke it. “Steward Dréden, you and your men moved with remarkable skill through the forests,” he murmured. “Diarmuid himself found no warning of your approach; how did you manage this?”

“Well that you should ask, Lord Ælfher,” the scout replied with a grey smile. “This very topic was one I sought to hit upon sooner rather than later.”

“Our forests, you may have noticed, are unusually quiet.”

“I have noted this trait in many a pine forest,” Niall softly remarked.

“Indeed
 but you will not, I think, find any pine forest half so hush and heavy as that of the Ædellic provinces, Lord Ælfher, and it is not merely a nationalistic sense of pride which prompts my claim.” Niall’s attention was piqued at this; unbidden, the sensation of weight prickled his arms as he remembered supporting Lysander’s inert form. “You are an educated man, Lord Ælfher, and this should be an easy question for you to answer.” Again, Lótharn’s voice had regained its air of sibilant resistance to authority. “What were the magicks of the ninth generation of Adellics?”

With cool hauteur, Niall responded, “Ciarán was a shadow-mage and Aryanna a life-mage, although you and I both know that the ways of shadow-mages—indeed, the full extent of their powers—are secrets they keep to themselves.”

RĂșmil smiled in his half-alive fashion and chipped in, “We called Lady Aryanna a light-mage here. The discrepancy between names alone speaks a fair amount as to the little-known nature of Ædellic old magic.”

“And that,” Lótharn murmured, “is part of what allows us our silence in these woods and what ensconces the whole of our province. Lord Ciarán and Lady Aryanna both blessed our lands on their deaths—while the rest of the world may be forced to endure the sword and spear of Rau-lass magic, no enemy to our people may enter this land. That is Aryanna’s gift to us. Lord Ciarán, in turn, granted the forest life—for shadow and death is in all things—and thus, we are able to move swiftly and silently, shadows ourselves, in the embrace of his magic. For their selflessness and care,” Lótharn whispered, hypnotically transfixed with the blasted stone wall opposite of him, “we continue to harbor grief and love for the passing of our noble family.”

Niall did not know how to respond; certainly, he thought over steepled hands, I doubt the strength of such a love, if it leaves the objects of its devotion in such a poor state of health—both physically and perhaps mentally. Yet the explanation was both sensible and rang somewhat more truly than Niall would care to admit with Lysander’s reflections on the matter.

“We’re the eldest of this lot, the only two who can wield influence over what becomes of Ædellic’s province. We could, perhaps, step in and divide it between the Mére and the Regneld, thereby erasing what traces were once left of that overall too-weak family. We might wield our influence over the people, or make a motion in council which would affect the land, and which Ciarán would be opposed to. It makes sense.”

Niall had doubted his uncle all too readily
 embarrassed shame touched the young elf’s heart, but not in full measure. In his suspicious, wary nature, Niall still harbored a spirit of skepticism towards the reliability of the account given to him; after all, as he’d noted but a small while earlier, there was no way to confirm or deny whatever tales these men fed him. The most he could do was to take and assess.

A pity he didn’t have more to assess on.

With heavy thoughts of blood magic and ancient ways, Niall carefully examined and absorbed the rest of what the Lord-Regent and steward had to share: the byways and trails of the fickle forests. By their account, it seemed the woods were a dangerous thing—“they will,” RĂșmil had mused, “lead astray even one who is our friend, if he is not with a man of our company”—and it was seeming more and more likely that sheer necessity would force the lot into taking a guide from LĂłtharn’s eerie band.

The men finished their discourse with more than a little haste, both a surprise and relief to Niall. While they had little more than an hour talking and exchanging information, such affairs as he’d grown accustomed to seeing them done normally consumed whole hours, a mental exhaustion of social interaction that the elf had grudgingly steeled himself for.

Niall had longed to see Lilith and Anahita privately, as soon as he could, in order to divulge the contents of the (perhaps needlessly) secretive meeting between the three elves. However, two of Lótharn’s men, he saw, had seemingly casually stationed themselves near the chambers of the two women. An internal sense of menace warded away the Ælfher, though he could not reason why, and he retired to his own apartments with a sigh. It was one pleasure, at least, to find that Diarmuid had managed to scramble in messily through the windows—not locked, apparently—and had been perched uneasily beside the sad glass since, waiting for Niall.

A raven cawed outside the window, and Diarmuid cast it a sharp glare. “Hhhst, Fechín,” the golden-haired elfling croaked, as hoarse as the corvid. The spectral bird ruffled its feathers and rasped again, vile-throated. Dia skittered back with a snarl, curling up beside Niall when the latter deemed it time to attempt sleeping.

It proved to be a restless night.
Last edited by Alacer Phasmatis on Sun Jun 19, 2011 12:20 am, edited 1 time in total.

Tip jar: the author of this post has received 0.00 INK in return for their work.

Alacer Phasmatis
Member for 16 years
Promethean Conversation Starter Author Conversationalist Lifegiver

Re: Freedom Forsaken

Tips: 0.00 INK Postby ShadowPhoenix on Tue Jun 07, 2011 6:09 pm

((Lilith/Diarmuid/Anahita collaboration))

Lilith eyed the retreating forms of Niall and their host for a few moments before she was forced to return her attention to the path her group now walked. She really didn’t like the fact that the one person who knew the most about these people was being led away from them. Her face and demeanor were as expressionless and distant as ever, but a growing sprout of worry was gnawing away underneath.

Casually, walking past Caelen, she whispered, “Bojapavis.” Be scared. Her lips hardly moved, and she was sure that only he had heard her. He gave no sign of it, though, and kept whispering furiously to Fionnula. After a few moments, though, he began to talk to others around him, making reference to a few ghost stories and bringing unsettling observations to the surface.

By the time they reached their rooms, the uneasiness that had thus far remained kept tightly under the surface had been unleashed. As a result, the children all slid into Aelia’s room, seeking the comfort that she had a tendency to give.

Lilith seated herself on the floor in a corner next to the fireplace, after once again checking over the two rooms for any signs of tampering or eavesdropping. “Diarmuid,” she called, eyes locking onto the boy’s form, “come here.” The child cast her a suspicious look from the corner he’d sequestered himself in, looking likelier to bite her than act like an actual noble-elf. However, some sense must have existed in his freakish head, as he glared around himself and half-walked, half-skittered to within an arm’s length of Lilith. Having called him, she pulled out a silver coin. Setting it on the stone hearth, her eyelids drooped, veiling most of the purple irises. The silver coin shattered into small, pebble-sized bits, glowing red at even the slightest touch of her magic. Letting these cool, she once again turned her attention to the boy.

“Diarmuid,” she began, not at all sure how to best ensure his aid, “I need your help. The people here might wish to harm us, most of all your uncle. I need you to find a way to spy on the meeting he’s having without getting caught. Then, you need to repeat exactly what they say word for word,” here she gave him a cool look. His lips were drawn over his teeth and his ears pinned back, as close to a snarl as an elf could get. Diarmuid appreciated neither being spoken to as of an uncomprehending child, nor being ordered into implicitly undesired action not expected of him. Flatly, she said, “I know you can do it, and we need to know if they intend to harm your uncle or us.”

Turning her attention to the silver pebbles on the hearth, she noted that they had cooled much faster than they ought to. Chipping them off, she put them in a pile in front of her. “I also need you to make sure these get taken through the halls. I can follow them with my magic,” hopefully, she thought to herself, “and make a map, just in case we need to leave here quickly and unnoticed. I also want you to let either myself or Anahita know if anyone comes close to either this room or the one the children will be sleeping in. And I need you to make sure that something’s watching these two rooms, and the windows leading outside, all night long.”

Diarmuid scowled. “Spies,” he hissed, in his low voice, raspy and quiet from disuse. “Them. Gathering.” He jerked a head to the windowsill, where one of the ravens had perched—Fiacre, Diarmuid knew from skittering around the animal’s protected mind. They were not wholly objects worthy of fear, for the roiling of the creatures’ thoughts beneath their foggy guard hinted little allegiance to the men around them; however, though their minds were elsewhere, this elsewhere did not cease to halt the patrolling of the ravens nor induce them to avoid corporeal obedience to the Ædellic almost-nobility. The elfling half-suspected that they would not allow another animal to rest in the same visible radius as themselves. However, he had only guilefully plied his power before, withholding his full efforts for the knowledge that the strangers were mindful of him. What creature had the right to let slide his thralldom as did these ragged-winged serfs? None did; he would endeavor again.

Diarmuid cast Lilith a dispassionate glance and smoothly clawed up a glimmering pebble. Pressing and rolling it in his palm, he quickly closed the space between himself and the moldy spectre, steadily glowering into its beady eyes. “Fiacre,” he hissed. “Shoo. Or come here and listen.” Only he cawed the words, cawed and gurgled them the way ravens did. Now the bird cocked its head, curious.

“You speak,” it chortled (not in laughter, but that was its voice). “Never in my life did I meet a master who spoke expecting response after seeking to usurp.”

Dia’s lip curled back into a feral snarl, and the raven walked stilt-legged along its tree branch, bemused. “You spend much time with long-toothed landfolk, master elf, if to a bird you growl.”

“Yes,” Dia replied, refraining from ill temper as he never would in the company of elfmen and women. “Yes, I do people my court with those long of tooth and long of claw, for they are the respected kings of the forests I hail from, and to be lord over them makes me doubly king.”

The raven seemed to find rich amusement in this, ruffling its feathers and rasping a cough of laughter. In truth, it sounded like TrĂ©asa when ill. Dia would have wryly commented on the bird’s elvish habits, but the rip-feathered blotch beat him to speech. “Wolves and foxes we have in plenty here, young one, and the mountains may boast their lions... but it is the owl and raven who holds dominion over the whole of this land.” Ruffling its feathers in contentment with this statement, the creature eyed him curiously again. “Wherefore, then, do you now wish to speak with me, master elf? You were not so forthright earlier, when you sought to bind me to you.”

“I seek a favor of you,” Diarmuid murmured, “an easy one, if you’ll agree to do it.”

“You must name it ere it be granted,” Fiacre noted.

“That is so,” Dia replied. He had to be wary about how this was phrased... “Dark-wing, it is vitally important that I hear and see what is occurring between my uncle, the bright-haired elfman, and the half-nobles you respond to. Your presence would not be unseemly, nor odd, nor would I be expected to be allowed to join with you if your properties are known to the half-lords.”

“Respond to, aye,” the bird disdainfully noted, “heed, no. And likewise do I respond to your favor, master elf: no. I will not let one such as yourself imperil my thoughts, nor will he who keeps my thoughts allow it.”

“Yes,” Diarmuid mused, “I wondered about that. Who is ‘he’, and why does he guard you so? May I not be allowed temporary entrance, with full expulsion when all matters have been settled between my uncle and the men? Or is there no way by which I might obtain your aid?”

Fiacre tilted his head, beady eyes blinking. “He is my master, and heart-lord of my spirit. He is the non-god beloved to Fechín, Lonán, and myself; the true lord. He is gone and present, betimes aware and unaware; he gives us intelligence and wit beyond that possessed by our species and for that, makes us a breed apart. We owe our being to him; we owe our hearts to him; he will not give you the least leeway. And sometimes, he has not the presence to give you the least leeway. Into and out of shadow falls our dear lord.”

Diarmuid grit his teeth and scowled. “But Fiacre—time wastes, time which is important! I trust not your half-nobles and neither, I would guess, do you, though you do not state as much. Give me a method, at least!”

“The young are foolish ere they are wise,” the black bird sighed, “and of habit you place me in the same class as the untamed beasts you are lord-king over, forgetting that to have a creature beyond your control does not mean that the being will not cooperate. Little master, I saw your elf-mage splitting stones by the hearth and I heard her bid you scatter them. Give me a stone to swallow, and I shall spit it out on the sill of their quarters for her to watch through.”

“I know not if she can do more than sense through them—I think not. Though deadly, she is callow.”

“Ahhh. But will you not ask?”

“No.”

“You care not to,” Fiacre corrected with avian reproach, sharply tapping the tree-branch with his beak, “divided as you are from your native tongue. Foolish ere wise, young one. Very well. Though your habits are anathema to me, Enthraller of Spirits, for your curious cause I shall take in talon a field mouse. From its small eyes and wide ears you may harken to the discourse of the traitor-lords.” Diarmuid was on the verge of voicing his thanks, but was cut short by Fiacre, who was unsteadily swiveling foot-over-foot on the bough. “Think nothing of it, master elf,” he coughed. “It is for the mouse my heart bleeds.” So saying, he took wing—great black shadow—and flapped into the distance, rising and angling once the prize was clutched in his feet and Dia latched onto the prize. I doubt, though Dia mused, that he was truly so bothered by sacrificing the mouse to me. He wouldn’t have budged if it had been more than a matter of principle.

But there was excellent news to be had in the raven’s actions: his swooping had directed Dia’s magic to a whole colony of mice, which he summoned now and called to collect Lilith’s silver, smiling ferally to himself as they scampered in and out single-file through the wall.

**********

Diarmuid finished relaying the contents of the meeting to Lilith, his tone as surly as it had been when he began. Lilith had spent the entire time multitasking between a rough map she had been drawing and watching Diarmuid’s lips move. She was highly skeptical of most of what Niall had been told, but she kept that to herself. She was of half a mind, though, to experiment and try to wander off on her own one day. On the other hand, that might not be such a good idea.

Before Diarmuid could vanish, Lilith said, “Remember, alert myself or Anahita if anyone comes close to these rooms or windows.” Returning her attention to the pages on the floor in front of her, Lilith sighed and began to massage her forehead with her knuckles. She was having difficulty with her magic, even though all she had done was passively “observe” them to determine where they were in relation to her. Several times she had lost a bit of silver, relocating it a few seconds later. As a result, there were several areas on her crude map that had dashed lines, approximating what would make sense as opposed to what she knew as fact.

The children finally were herded out of the room, and Lilith examined the contents of the wardrobe while they were gone. Everything was black, which worried her. Normal people didn’t have a wardrobe full of nothing but black clothes. Changing, Lilith laid her clothes next to the couch, but kept her boots on. Anahita—Aelia, she corrected herself—came back quite a good while later. Picking up the sheets of paper, Lilith handed them to the faery. “Memorize this,” she ordered, settling herself on the couch in front of the fire. “Um, sure.” Anahita did so, of course, having wit enough to gather the intent and purpose behind the statement, and by now more than familiar with Lilith’s manner. When the faery handed the sheets back to her, Lilith held them above the flames and watched the fire licking away at the paper.

When they had all been disposed of, Lilith took off her cloak and laid it on the floor next to her backpack, which was resting against the couch leg furthest from the door. Placing her daggers within arm’s reach, she then laid down, angling herself so that her booted feet weren’t touching the fabric. Without another word, she closed her eyes, outwardly ignoring the faery.

Anahita paused and stared over the edge of her tunic, which was currently being discarded (the children having had all been tucked away, almost an hour’s work of kisses, reassurances, and bedside talking). “Er, Lilith,” she said, nonchalantly tossing aside her garments and pulling on a plain black shift from a wardrobe which, like the Ælfher’s, was well-stocked in an array of garments (if to a lesser degree), albeit with an entirely too somber tone. “Do you want to go to your own room now?” She didn’t exactly think the query would work, but it was worth posing.

Lilith ignored the faery’s question, keeping her face expressionless. None of the muscles in her face twitched, nor did her eyes. If it weren’t for her breathing, one would even think her asleep. If the foolish girl couldn’t figure out that she wasn’t leaving, then she was an idiot who didn’t deserve to be answered.

“Lilith,” Anahita murmured, crouching down beside her. “Perhaps you’d like to go investigate your own quarters now?”

Once more, Lilith ignored the girl. She had already investigated her room, along with the ones that were being currently occupied. And it was more than obvious that she had no intention of leaving. Quite honestly, Lilith didn’t give a d*mn if Anahita wanted her out. She was not going to separate their group more than it already was; Niall was a good distance away, the kids were in another room, and they were across the hall. That meant that neither the children nor the adults (except for maybe Niall, who they hadn’t seen since supper) could lock their doors, a fact which disturbed Lilith greatly. So she’d stay in “Aelia’s” room, and hopefully be better prepared than the faery if someone attempted to enter uninvited. Though who in this freaking place would be invited into their rooms, Lilith didn’t know.

Anahita stared for a moment, sighed and rose to her own bed, muttering, “Fine. There’s a guard outside our doors trying to look casual. If you want them thinking we’re in an illicit relationship... fine. Be my GUEST.” So saying, she blew out the candles—with a moody sweep of her wings that knocked over the sticks as well, for all that using her mouth would’ve likely avoided such a happenstance—and crawled under unnecessarily thick covers (the majority of which were kicked off).

Lilith mentally rolled her eyes at the girl’s silliness. Just because they were sharing a room wasn’t enough to give anyone reason to think—but suddenly Lilith recalled the tone Niall had used when he had said that she and “Aelia” had had a long friendship. And the seemingly purposefully-neutral look on his face. Well, a thought sprang up, unbidden, I was almost in a relationship with a woman that looked exactly like her... suddenly she suppressed the unbidden image of Kalila, chattering and hanging onto the much-taller girl’s arm.

There was silence for a moment, heavy because of the atmosphere.

“Lilith?” Anahita murmured, shifting onto her stomach and tugging a strand of loose hair. She didn’t expect a reply. “We haven’t really spoken in the past month or so.” Brilliant start, Ahnie. Sorea would’ve given you full accolades for that pithy comment. “So...” Well. In a number of ways, her sister made a good blueprint to bounce off of when determining intercourse with Lilith; what she knew to be true of Sorea was that she was unlikely to state something she thought plain as day and pure common sense, or she’d coldly withhold the source of her ire, brown eyes taunting over the information she knew and her sister didn’t—but which she should because any halfwit would. Sorea, naturally, would have wanted the reason for the silence stated before she’d have broached it (perhaps in scorn or in diffidence, but still an approach). Softly, Anahita whispered—whispered, because she knew the elf could still hear it—“I’m sorry if you’re still angry at me for trusting Aerain too quickly.” It burned acid on her tongue to say it, for her heart felt justified—and her faery magic had rung true—but the self was worth less than the whole, and the whole was torn in two right now. “Lysander was right,” this part she could say honestly, “when he labeled me a fool and a murderess, and I see why you wouldn’t want to speak with me after I endangered us again.” Burrowing deep into the covers to muffle the rustle of her trembling wings, and to hide the fact that she was biting her lip to keep from crying, Anahita repeated, “I’m sorry.”

In the dying light of the glowing embers, Lilith’s eyes opened the smallest fraction. “So you finally got enough guts to admit your idiocy,” she said, sarcastically. “And you’re right, you were wrong to trust her,” she said in a tone that implied should such a thing ever happen again, there would be severe consequences.

Continuing, she said, “And don’t kid yourself by acting like you could have done anything. You’re weak and half-blind, and have an appalling fear of taking any sort of defensive action. Taking It’s words to heart would be deluding yourself that there was something you could have done, in which case you have an ego just as large as It’s.”

The faery’s brows furrowed now; it was damned prideful of her to feel snappish at being dubbed “weak” yet again, but she could reason how from a defensive perspective, she truly was as such—nonetheless, she was stronger than Lysander and Lilith in the force of her arms, and though her center was weaker than Darragh’s, her wings were a set of limbs he could not match. But she was right, of course; from the eyes of the elf and her magic-rich companions, she was weak. It was Signum’s perspective too, she recalled; had he not tried to make some excuse for her safety when he’d broached the idea of her leaving with Lilith and Lysander? It had been different then, though—Lilith had actually demanded her company as a prerequisite.

The faery curled up on herself, ultimately not deeming any counter-argument sufficient to Lilith’s. She was weak, and a hindrance, and perhaps every manner of stupid—as Sorea would gently point out—but if the two were on speaking terms again, all was well. If not... well, they weren’t.

After a moment or two of silence, Lilith spoke. “It would be absolutely furious if It thought we were in a relationship together...” she mused, a hint of humor coloring her voice. Oh yes, It would be d*mned furious. A small grin threatened to break through her expressionless mask, and it was difficult to suppress it. Anahita smiled meekly. “Lilith,” she mumbled, “am I to understand that you’re offering a proposition?”

Now the grin surfaced again, nearly baring her canine teeth. “Maybe, my good lady,” she replied. “It would all depend on how such a proposition were to be received, though. I would not mention such a forbidden relationship to one who was unwilling. After all, both homosexuality and cross-species lovers go against everything your gods have to say. And I wouldn’t wish to place you in an awkward spot.”

“My family,” Anahita murmured weakly, although with a hint of wryness re-entering her voice, “is of infamously irreverent stock. I daresay our illicit affections would have to be put on hold for a matter of weeks—but time doesn’t exactly dampen true love, I imagine...”

“Yes...” Lilith murmured. “Though it would be nice to tell It at some point—when It asks, of course—that It's decision to let us continue without It led to us being forced to share a room and, incidentally, confess our deepest, truest feelings to one another... especially if we don’t mention that I took the couch.” It was partially true, she imagined, though she still wasn’t certain that Anahita’s apology had been totally genuine. Faeries could be d*mned stubborn about other members of their species.

“Mm,” Anahita agreed. “Although it wouldn’t do to neglect thought of the amorous Lord Unorian’s reaction...”

“I didn’t know he enjoyed the thought of cross-species, female lovers,” Lilith responded, feeling vaguely surprised. But it just went to show that you never could tell about those sorts of things. That could make things slightly awkward, especially if he were like some people she knew and insisted on being around and watching. Even more so given that there wasn’t anything to watch, a fact he would relay to It, thus ruining their amusement at It's reactions.

Anahita lay flat for a moment, biting on her finger to suppress a threatening peal of laughter. With a grin that crinkled her eyes and was utterly lost to the she-elf in the dark, she snorted, “no, Lilith. He’s fatally attracted to you. Haven’t you SEEN him?!”

Lilith paused, thinking for a moment. “No, Anahita, we’ve traveled with him for weeks and I haven’t seen him even once,” she said, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “I don’t know what that has to do with your conclusion. Besides, why would you think he is?” she concluded, in more normal tones.

Anahita paused and sighed. “Oh, let me count the ways...” She furrowed her brows in mock scrutiny, yet another expression wasted. “He’s defended you against Lysander multiple times. Not once for me. He split the group in defense of you. He got beat up by his foster brother for you. He insists that you eat, but not that you be force-fed. He harps on your beauty like an addle-pated man-child, and he stops playing the flute if you look too irked. He told Aoise to stop going near you when he saw that you didn’t like dogs. And it goes on... the elf is smitten, Lilith.”

Lilith snorted, letting her eyes close again. “And how much of that defense can be attributed to him wishing to take away some control from It? Quite a lot, I’d be willing to bet. And him insisting that I eat is absolutely meaningless, in the grand scheme of things. He agrees with It, but also apparently wishes to establish his views as different, so he changes It’s words slightly. He comments on my “beauty” in order to make me feel better, something I’ve noticed most that most Adurians do whenever children with severe deformities are involved. His dog never goes near anyone, and I never look irked, which removes your claims about that.”

“Eh. He’s a better-hearted person than you give him credit for being. Unlike Lysander, he genuinely cares for the happiness of those around him, so I think that if their views differ slightly, it’s chiefly because of this trait. You can’t have missed that it’s only in such circumstances that Darragh dares to assert himself against Lysander; the rest of the time he’s rather dog-like himself. And your horse certainly knows when you’re irked, and he definitely pays attention to your horse. If you want to think otherwise, though... fine.” Anahita’s eyelids fluttered shut, although a mischievous smile still played about her lips. “We’ll just see how he reacts when the news of our new-found bond hits him.”

Lilith mentally rolled her eyes. “We shall,” she calmly said. “And when you’re irritated in the morning because you didn’t sleep enough, I refuse to take the blame.” Despite her words, though, Lilith remained awake for several hours, listening to Anahita’s deep breathing and staring at the embers. She finally allowed herself to doze lightly, towards the early hours of the morning, still as paranoid as ever.

Tip jar: the author of this post has received 0.00 INK in return for their work.

User avatar
ShadowPhoenix
Member for 16 years
Conversationalist

Re: Freedom Forsaken

Tips: 0.00 INK Postby ShadowPhoenix on Tue Jun 21, 2011 4:29 pm

((Niall))

The stars twinkled brighter in the land of the Ædellics than Fechín had ever seen them shining in the Ælfher skies; the thought came to him because he was regarding two of the latter now, one tall and kingly, the other small and wild. And he crouched there, watching them, because that was what Ciarán had wanted him to do. The heart-lord’s strength was alert tonight, as it always was when the half-moon bathed the world in brilliant silver light, for it was on the night of a half-moon that his body was abandoned to death and by the cycle of moon-months, his strength rose and fell. Tonight... tonight Ciarán was strong. Fechín’s avian heart glowed with pleasure, for he knew that the heart-lord would need him, and that for a moment (a brief moment, the length of a single conversation, perhaps, but no less precious a moment) his true lord’s gentle presence and delicate being would once again touch the bird’s mind and feelings.

Fechín. A thousand whispers consolidated into one young voice. The raven’s head swiveled about and he cawed. Fechín, my Fechín... open the window. Fanning out the inky expanse of his wings, the raven hastened to obey. Adroitly, his dagger-sharp beak manipulated the lock of the barrier until it swung open, him hopping clear of the casement as it cut its arc, then returning to perch on the sill. Two malevolent green eyes glittered at him from where they rested, set in a boy curled over the elf-lord’s chest. Diarmuid was awake.

With a feral air the elfling rose, the venom of the wary never leaving his eyes. To his hands and feet he dropped, hair falling in a ragged golden tumble about his pinched features, and with lion-learned stealth, the young lad stalked toward the raven. “Fechín,” he hissed. The ease with which he spoke the raven-tongue surprised the avian, who had not seen his conversation with Fiacre nor fully believed the powers which his heart-lord had tried to give him a sense of; Fechín had merely assumed that he did not understand Ciarán fully, as happened when the elf-master’s power was yet waxing.

“Fechín, what brings you here?” Words cordially stated but coldly delivered; Diarmuid little trusted the ravens. Fly to the headboard of the bed, little Fechín, and stand over the sleeping elf-lord. Be silent, for I keep him weakly in his dreams and he sleeps but lightly. The bird thus did not deign to respond to the golden-haired child, but rather leapt into the air and glided on the force of his jump to crouch over the flame-haired one. The raven turned a beady, analytic eye on the reposing elf.

His features were built in the classic Ælfher fashion, with a square jaw that was not broad, an aquiline nose and long, medium-proportioned eyes. They were lidded now, but had shown the hazel of the family earlier in the woods, when the traitor Lothárn had approached him. Fechín liked the way the man’s shoulder’s were set. They were muscled but slender, and pools of shade gathered in the hollows of the stomach, throat and collar-bone. It was a design not unlike what the heart-lord’s might have been, had he not been thrust into the core of darkness.

But Fechín’s mind wandered just as much as his inconstant lord’s, for lost in avian reverie, he hadn’t heeded the feral boy and was shocked into skittering back when Diarmuid’s curled fingers clenched into the feathers of Fechín’s neck and back. “What is your business here?” he snarled. Although Diarmuid’s hard glare was focused on the bird, a vesper of suspicion fired part of the question at the heart-lord, whom he knew not as the lord but only as the guard in their minds.

Something scrabbled against the fluid darkness ensconcing the bird’s thoughts, something arched and single-mindedly protective. It did not deter now from attacking the shield—indeed it attacked whole-heartedly, seeing the elf he reluctantly loved being kept in the realm of sleep. The insistence grew, and grew, until it was like the boy was straining to budge an unyielding boulder in the earth with all his force, but the boulder was content to sit secure.

CiarĂĄn relented.

As if a taunt rope had snapped, Diarmuid tumbled headlong into the depths of Fechín’s mind, or rather, his magic did. The child was not a telepath, but a possessor; thus, he did not himself get lost, only entrenched. He was truly lost when Ciarán stepped forward and slammed the elfling’s mental wrists onto a mental table and did not let the child move forwards or retreat. That was when Diarmuid was truly lost, and the pearly mist of his gaze grew tainted with opalescent grey tones.

The force of the shadow-mage quickly streaked into the elfling’s thoughts and a thousand, then a million voices all in a cogent and fully self-possessed chorus clamoured for Dia to connect to the elf-lord, to connect to the red-haired one. Then of their voices there was a consolidation of sounds and past and memory; all more tangible to Diarmuid, as though the voices had been oil but this voice was alcohol. The madness died down and melted away. It gathered in the cloak and cowl of a single elf he had never before in his life met.

The elf looked like a mirage, or as though infinitely small scribbles of ivory pale, ocean blue and sooty black inky had been used to scrawl centuries upon centuries of history and magic into an elf-shaped book. “
Child,” the creation whispered in greeting. His voice was young and supple, but he gasped as though his throat burned to speak. “Diarmuid,” he whispered, walking to the young boy’s mind and kneeling to place them eye-to-eye (somehow, the elf had made a world where they were of proportionate heights), he spoke again. Within his turbulent regard there nestled the power of a world. Diarmuid had thought the world was strong in his eyes, for his was the world of all that lived and moved and breathed. It was nothing compared to the world in this elf’s gaze. The vastness contained within it spoke of ages unnumbered, of time beyond time, of existence in the days before there were days and there had been no sun, no moon, no stars or worlds beyond the world of darkness.

The elf-king spoke again. “Diarmuid, connect to Niall. I must... I must speak with him-- do not fear--”, for indeed, trepidation shined in the elfling’s thoughts and he shrank from spectral elf, “I will not... harm... Niall.”

Diarmuid hesitated. The language of the cloak was ominous and the cowl a malignant inky colour. The umbrage which ensconced the elf was mercurial and impartial, insensitive to the world beyond dark, for it was both ancient and powerful, two things which are not easily impressed. But the elf himself was steeped in honesty. The whole of his quick, starved features and conflicted hands spoke as much and were contradicted only by the storm within his eyes, for that storm had the same world-power as the lapping script of his garb. Yet the storm was
his storm; Diarmuid could feel how they were one and the same and how even though it was greater and older, the immense totality of the world around this elf waited for his command to act, listened to his heart before it moved, sat upon its throne of ancient being and cherished this single soul.

“I look at you and—I can
see the sincerity of your words, mantling your shoulder shoulders and following your lips, Lord Ædellic,” Diarmuid murmured, his own voice containing the mischievous resonance of what it might have been had he never fallen into magic. “Is it even possible to lie here?” A cautionary pause laden with last-minute reservation, and then the final verdict: “Come.”

The pale elf nodded, as though he had expected nothing else. He watched Diarmuid spin the silver threads of possessing into Niall’s sleep and when the trail was done, a fast piece of work, the elf took just four gliding steps onto the shining light before in a trail of shadow, he nigh flew into the young man’s dreams.

Diarmuid stood stock-still, aware of the fact that the raven-guardian had not released the child from his grasp. He was stronger, then, than he seemed... more menacing than the fragile appearance let on. As he realized this, Diarmuid realized something else: he was caught in a warring limbo, the silver-grey link between the bird, its master, and the otherwise un-trespassable reaches of the Ælfher’s mind.





Moonlight swamped the world without. Within Niall’s chambers, it melted in a silver-cast square across the sill of the open windows and flowed across the floor and onto his bed. The light stopped short of his knees, but the stones of the chamber were dully refulgent, and an aura of soft nighttime permeated the whole apartment. On some walls hung exquisitely plain tapestries, beautiful the way the black writing of winter trees was beautiful, or the simplicity of dry roses a comfort. On these walls there hung nothing; they were set in with stones instead, precious stones. With depictions of history and magic beyond the comprehension of the slumbering scholar, they were every inch a worthy adornment for a visiting dignitary’s chambers, and in some shape or form every sort of magic was included: shifter-magic, faery-magic, and mage-craft. The colour-scheme of the place was as quietly ornate as its tapestries, combining somber hues of little vibrancy into a pleasing whole.

But then
 something shifted. It was a minor something, a change in the square of moonlight which seemed to solidify rather than diminish the peaceful scene. However little its effect on the visual senses, though, it struck upon the innate sixth sense with intimate strength. In the part of the body which stirs uncomfortably and casts anxious looks at dark corners, the change in the moonlight was like the vast, undulating ripples of a stone’s wake.

Niall awoke.

He didn’t notice his surroundings at first; the thing which registered foremost in his thoughts was that he didn’t see, hear, or feel Diarmuid anywhere in the vicinity. The cogitation of this thought propelled him into full alertness. It was then that his vibrating, heightened senses finally picked up on the strangeness of where he was, how much it had changed, and the fact that he must be dreaming—for there, framed in moonlight, stood the long-deceased lord.

He was painfully insubstantial; one almost had the sense that he was made of moonlight, were it not that on every aspect which should have been illuminated by light, there was nothing, and the closer one got to the far side of the elf—which would have been wholly reposed in shadow—the more substantial and visible he became. Nonetheless, though most of his face was invisible and that part which was visible was obscured in darkness, there was no mistaking the presence of Ciarán Ædellic.

“Child, welcome,” he whispered in a voice which, if Niall were asked, he would have said seemed to find its origin within his own head. It bore the weight of stones and dark pools. “Do not look so wary—we are in your dreams of my memories, no more. When you awake, you will find yourself much as you were when you went to sleep, bar that there will be a raven above your head and your nephew will be somewhat angrily attempting to dislodge him.”

Niall smiled tightly. “You’ll pardon me, I pray, for not being particularly comforted by the news.”

The dark figure laughed—or gave an air of laughter, for he did not move and indeed, the Ciarán of Niall’s past was little given to expressions. The Ælfher lord drew up his knees and rested his elbows on them, eyeing the strange apparition with more interest, if no less misgiving. It was not a state lost on Ciarán; with an ironical smile—this did appear on the moon-cast man, as a barely visible twitch in one segment of darkness—he murmured, “Even dead men may laugh.” Beyond that, he was evidently not inclined to explain why dead men might laugh.

The elf’s smile stayed in place as he shifted from moonbeam into shadows; the tenebrous corners and light-shielded aspects of the room did as much to solidify his appearance as they did to obscure it. Niall frowned, unappreciative. Light might have erased the Ædellic lord, but at least it didn’t lose him.

“I am briefly in your dreams to impart a series of instructions to you. Heed each word, for delivering them is not easy and they will bear great weight on the future course of your country should they be followed.”

Suspiciously, Niall asked, “Why?”

Ciarán suddenly appeared in the gloom beside him; this close, hints of his bone-pale skin and the light, briar-rose pinking of his lips were obscurely apparent. The dead man said nothing, but his hand reached out to touch Niall’s breast, and then he felt: deep, rushing, purely honourable—a brilliant love of freedom, of life and of his country. Beneath that, though, there pulsed a slender inky thread, which quickened at being noticed and snaked to the forefront of the tide. “I,” Ciarán whispered, “am the lord who cannot be unthroned, who was first to govern the land of elves and who will be the last. I have gained this land and the Otherland, and they are mine ere I forsake them. While there are people good and honest in them, I will protect them; while there are children whose youth was marred by suffering, I would avenge them; while there live warriors who sought to keep home and honour secure and were felled, I will erase the scourge for them. I am one of the many lords of Aduro, and its people are my subjects to protect.”

“Few lords have done this, Niall Ælfher; a very, very few. Most have died; turned traitor to their people; or fled their thrones and lie in hiding, desperately attempting to evade the eye of the Rau-lass ere it falls upon them, in its thirst for the blood of rulers past. Aduro needs its strongest men to stand by her side.”

The ironical smile graced Ciarán’s lips again as though at some bitter, private joke. Niall instantly thought of the people who were Ciarán’s own subjects, the starving, malnourished elves of the Ædellic province, and the elf remarked, “there is a black humor in that I, a lord dispossessed by his people, should care to aid a people dispossessed by their lords.” Niall wanted to ask further but he said nothing. Still, something in Ciarán’s hands and eyes seemed to have guessed at it.

Nonetheless, he did not return to this topic; if it was of any importance to him, he did not show it. Indeed, CiarĂĄn seemed past all caring for it, as though spending so much time in the company of the shadows had imparted to him a little bit of their world view and he too now saw a great many things as being transient or insignificant which once would have appeared at the fore of every address. Now he began to give his instruction, and although the words were delivered softly, each as sibilant and subdued as the ink of a shadow, they were nonetheless as clear and readily heard as the splatter of a raindrop was felt.

“Do not trust Darragh Unorian,” he whispered. “I know you have not and do not still. He is true of heart and courageous, raised to know right from wrong and bear the greatest will towards carrying out honorable deeds. Yet even the brightest among us may be readily corrupted, and Darragh Unorian is no more true to Aduro, but to the Rau-lass. In his blind devotion to Parthalán Unorian, he has made himself the perfect instrument for this Elder Lord’s ploys.”

Niall interrupted. “You mean to say that the highest Unorian lord,” he murmured almost accusingly, “has turned into an agent of the Rau-lass. Parthalán Unorian, so old that no threat means anything to him anymore, a man no more impressed by a telepathic army now than he was by his own kinsmen in civil war over a millennia past.”

“I mean this very man,” Ciarán murmured not coolly but reprovingly, as though correcting a child which had erred. “Lord Parthalán is not impressed by a telepathic army, for he has indeed grown too diffident with age for that—and even such an army would not be able to enter his halls without forgetting that their wish was to kill him. Yet do not forget that such a one as he would have no nostalgia for the past and no care for the present, but only for the future. What future would he choose? The fall of the Ælfher and Ædellic? Or the continuing growth and prosperity of elf-kind and chiefly, Unorian-kind, as they adapt to circumstance? Parthalán has seen the world change until the fabric of today has little to no relation to the world of his birth over 1,700 years past. The Faery Empire was once the greatest force on Aduro; it rose out of the betrayal and trickery of a single bird-wing. Once there were only Féderne, Blodsian and Ædellic, and the last was the strongest and most fearful. Then there were twelve of us, and now eleven, and that which was the greatest in the arcane and in riches has fallen the lowest. The Ælfhers were once an army, you know this by your family name: Elf-Warrior. Dragutin swore that he would be a true lord among lords, one who relied on no guards for the safety of his family and need not press into service the men of his province in order to protect the land or wage war—in exchange for rulership, he and all Ælfhers would be the complete and independent protectors of their land. Parthalán was a young Unorian boy when his family became noble alongside the Ælfher, and he saw Dragutin make this vow. Now he shall see its fruit.

“For such a one, aiding the Rau-lass is merely logic.”

Niall nodded, a chill in his heart. Darragh had not been dear to him or Diarmuid and neither one had approved of the many independent forays Darragh had made into the woods when they’d travelled, the number of foxes, wolves and wild dogs he’d spoken to. Now Niall couldn’t wonder, which a slightly sick twist of worry, as to whether Darragh had been leaving behind clear directions of their coordinates for the Rau-lass with each and every canid.

Small wonder that he, his faithful dog who would have carried out any instructions, and his stubborn friend who would have reported any events, had been barred entrance into the Ædellic lands. Again with that air of following his thoughts, Ciarán murmured, “do not confide in your uncle either, Niall. Lysander’s trust of Darragh makes him fundamentally weak. Now, when you have gone through my lands and are back in the company of those two lords, you shall find with them a small girl. She briefly passed through a segment of my woods, though she knew naught of it, in a mad flight during the night. Her name is Pyrei and she is true to Aduro. I charge you, Niall, not to go further south with your uncle when you’ve met with him again, but rather to go northwards with Pyrei, to her people—a group of rebels themselves. For magic and elvish strength, you and Diarmuid would be welcome. I bid you not go as noblemen, though, but as mere elves.”

Ciarán raised his hands and now traced black lines in the air, which twisted and vanished. “You, with Diarmuid, would be able to communicate with all of Aduro. Phoenix Raine can speak with wolves; Signum Vulnus, I know from the flight of my ravens, has acquired a telepath; and there are shifters to the north who share half their souls with dogs and foxes. Place yourself where I send you, and there shall be a clean line of communication between all the rebel factions scattered across Aduro, who do not even yet know that they exist.” His cool hand touched Niall’s warm forehead. “Send Diarmuid’s wolves, loaded with memories of allies and with his message—the surest proof for any telepath or wolf-speaking shifter of their trustworthiness—to this place in the north.” Niall saw Aduro as though it were a map imprinted behind the lids of his eyes; he saw it without eyes, in the way that magic renders all the normal senses unreliable and draws on a sixth sense of cognition, and on the map he was sent through roads and forests, weeks of journey from a wolf’s point of view condensed into seconds. The end of the road was a shining silver light. A magical x-marks-the-spot.

“Then we will all know of each other,” Niall thought. Ciarán nodded. Though he lacked an air of finality, Niall now interrupted him and sharply demanded, “You have given very clear directions, Lord Ædellic. But as I recall, you were a most discreetly placed spy and traitor in the last days of the war—how do I know that you’re not some malignant spirit trapped in his lands, seeking to continue his black deeds through the body of another? Your knowledge is great yet as you’ve demonstrated, it cannot leave your lands and none may enter them who sympathize with the Rau-lass or who are close to such persons. Add to that the state of your people—your sickly, sallow people!—and tell me how I’m supposed to trust you and believe that you truly do work for Aduro. You showed me your heart, and it was brimful of nobility and just purpose for a cause; yet how am I to know that your cause and mine are the same?”

Deep offense shone in Ciarán’s eyes and for a moment Niall wondered if he’d been too hasty. All of a sudden there was a world rather than an ocean in his gaze, a vast world older than time and there beyond life, and this world was grieved and angered. For a heartbeat the chambers turned all to black, and a great menace grew about Niall, clutching not at his bare, unprotected chest or nerveless hands, but at the very pulse of his horribly vulnerable soul and being—

“I,” Ciarán whispered, “understand.” His voice was like diamond; it glittered as nothing from him yet had and all that clamouring umbrage seemed to coalesce around its shivering brilliance, shadows collapsing around it until they were, very suddenly, back within the heart of the mage and all was as it had been before.

Or perhaps it wasn’t. Almost as though he was what he felt, Ciarán’s aspect had turned haggard and time-lost. His black hair fell like ragged, moulty crow feathers to brush his shoulders and his whole self seemed to shudder from a hollow emptiness, the immortal grief of an elf. “I understand,” he whispered again, “and so I will show you. These are the memories I meant to give to Phoenix Raine that day I died, but as magic compounded upon magic I found myself too weak to impart it in full to her—look closely now, and tell me then that I would ever freely aid the Rau-lass.”

Niall felt the cool weight of a hand on his forehead.






It all began with a little boy who at three years old found another voice to join his mother’s in singing him to sleep, and found another voice to follow his father’s when telling him about the plants and flowers blooming into life during the spring. It was this voice which found him drowning in a river and had sent the sense of urgency to a rye-haired elf-lord before whom the pacing current parted and it was this voice which was his closest company. When he was old enough, at seven, he was whisked away like a baby bird in their thousands of hands to a strange, yet utterly safe place: a quarter of magic which was bitterly cold but secure. Among these stone monoliths, clad only in the silk tunic and breeches he’d been wearing and now terribly cold in the whipping snow, he began to learn. The first lesson was how to keep warm; it was his first magic. The second was that he should keep this a secret for as long as he could, to be a child for as long as he might, until his body was strong enough to hold and harbor the full magic.

------

The meadow bore a dreamy sheen, bathed in the beauty of a northern summer. The air was still cool, touched by a breeze, and the plants which grew were of that low, scrubby variety that favored such climates. Four horsemen rode over the scene, and Niall instantly recognized the first three: CiarĂĄn rode in the lead on a black pacer, dressed in white tunic and black breeches, with a stony expression on his face. Behind him, on his left and right, rode LĂłtharn and a man from his band; the man who took up the rear was unknown.

The foremost pair looked decidedly frustrated.

“My lord,” Lótharn said with the air of someone repeating something, half-hoping that this time it would register. “Have you not considered your political standing? You are soon to join the ranks of the High Lords, not because you are yourself an elder lord or a seasoned debater, but because your father has stepped down and there is simply no other Ædellic alive to take the seat! You have scant little age as it is—but compared to the likes of Parthalán Unorian, Aralt Eald, Muiris Cynfést, Ciardha Blodsian, or Maelán Féderne! Even Nieander Ælfher, youngest though he is, was inducted for his quick wits and astute diplomacy—whereas there is no choice with you! You could match, for instance, Cathal Unorian—but to be placed in opposition to High Lord Parthalán? You are fifty, he is
over a millennium and a half. The shadows are ancient, my lord, all-knowing; if you will not accept them for the standing their powers will give you, then at least embrace your powers for the wisdom they are bound to impart!”

The elf-lord rode on, his expression unchanged, although his body swayed with his horse as the small-hoofed equine picked his way down a gorse-scattered mound. “Ciarán!” Lótharn snapped, kicking his horse to rear before Ciarán’s and grabbing the other horse’s bridle. “Ciarán,
listen!”

The youth sat erect and as still as granite. With the regal bearing of his noble birth, he turned his head as little as was absolutely necessary to give the other man a distant, cool look. Beyond that, he said nothing; instead he raised his pale hand and lowered it. Of a sudden, the horses of the other three reeled back in confusion, squealing and whinnying alarm as shadowy creatures fogged their vision and the world flickered in confusion (a confusion none of the riders could see, but which was terribly apparent to their mounts). CiarĂĄn diverted his attention to a winging raven. A small, sarcastic smile graced his lips and he cantered after the flapping spectre, whilst his attendants sought to dispel the burst of magic.


-------

"Careful, Aryanna..." The child looked up at him, a look that stoked strong parental love in his heart, with eyes as dark and mysterious as his own. "It's only water," she protested to the other. "Come on, CiarĂĄn! I wanna play with you!" But the elder only shook his head, smiling gently from where he stood, cloaked like one of the powerful spirits of old by the shade of an elm. Laughing, the round-faced child skipped after a toad, returning sodden with her trophy and presenting it proudly to her brother. "See? Lookit what I caught!" Kneeling down, the other elf carefully picked up the amphibian. He examined it and proclaimed it to be a fine specimen of a toad. Grinning broadly, his sister wandered on and then froze.

“Good day!” She chirped, skipping ahead on the dry peaks of the river-rocks until she was at the arm of a lady neither sibling had noticed. The woman’s hair was a silky, sooty brown as rich as bistre and her eyes were the verdant color of the pines. Her flesh was as pale as that of any Ædellic elf and appeared particularly colorless beside that of the vibrant, rosy Aryanna, but when she moved out of the bluish shadow, a certain rosiness was evident on her cheek and lips. “Good day,” she said back. Her voice bore a slightly uncouth edge, but her wide smile more than made up for it. “And who are you?”

“I’m Ari,” the golden-haired child replied. “And that’s my brother!” She pointed to Ciarán, whose watchful face was hidden from view. With a sigh, she lamented, “I had a frog an’ he let it go, otherwise I would show you it.” The lady smiled laughingly, flattered by the child’s attention. Setting down a basket of witch hazel, she offered to help Aryanna catch another. As it turned out, she was even more reckless than the little girl had been in her attempts to get the largest (or the quickest, whichever one happened first) toad in the creek. “Be cautious, my lady,” Ciarán murmured sharply, “you may risk your neck with whomsoever else you will, but I beg for more prudence in the company of her ladyship.” The smiling woman froze in motion far too soon and by consequence, tumbled onto the bank. Heedless of the silt on her dress, she said quickly in her wild-hill voice, “her ladyship?”

Ciarán did not answer, but removed his cloak and stepped out of the shadow of the elm, letting its darkness cling to him for half a stride ere it dissipated. The sunlight shined on the rich, supple black leather for his boots and glanced off of the smooth black silk-on-cotton of his tunic and breeches. It outlined his hair, eyes and bloodless face. If the identity was not clear before, it was made utterly apparent when a great raven flew from the bower of the elm and settled on the elf’s shoulder. “My lord!” The elf-woman made as though to fall to her knees and bend her head over her palms as was proper, but she found she could not; a thin, white hand had closed around her elbow and stayed her motion. Drawing her up, Ciarán murmured with a pleasant air, “you never named yourself.”

“Liadan Æd-Eolluin, my lord,” she said lowly. “Grey one,” he said calmly, for
Liadan meant grey lady, “you need not be so alarmed; you could not know us for your lord and lady, when one was cloaked and the other is clad in a rather muddy, plain shift. However, for the sake of her nobility, and because I find us a rather strained species, I do request that you be more cautious with Aryanna’s safety.”

Liadan nodded quickly. Although initially she was still chary, CiarĂĄn found out later that her behavior by the creek was wholly uncharacteristic of the woman. Generally she was known to be proud, strong-willed, and not so readily impressed. Still, finding oneself accidentally in the company of the powerful (and playing with one such individual) could be disconcerting in the most unanticipated of ways. Later CiarĂĄn would find her to be grave and contemplative when she wasn’t openly light-hearted. Liadan had no family bar a cousin, RĂșmil, and together they plied their trade: weaving. Say rather, RĂșmil wove canvases and clothes, working his water-magic into them so that no storm could penetrate the fabric. Then he gave it to Liadan, who with needle and thread would sing a silent spell and stitch symbols into the cloth, charms of enchantment for good health, prosperity, whatever was asked of them. This was not difficult for her, for her magic was Old magic, the art of slipping into the patterns of the arcane and walking between fate (not at all surprising, as somewhere in her line she was bound to have Ædellic blood).

Against himself, Ciarán came to find his thoughts full of her. He found his blood and heart quickened at her footfall and his thoughts twice as keen when he exchanged words with her. As Liadan grew sweeter to him, the thought of wraith-dom and shadow-magic grew less so. What Lótharn and all the rest would not understand was the cost of becoming a complete vessel for the magic. Eternal darkness would become mandatory, the ability to have children would be lost, and slowly his heart would dim and dull from the ancient crowd. Nowhere in this was there room for Liadan. Thus, though Ciarán said nothing to his regent or to the line of stewards—not even to the former lord and lady, his father and mother—the dark lord quietly and privately laid aside any and all plans that would distance him from her. Inevitably, the line of stewards soon caught on. They had been struggling with his lordship for decades, after all, in the attempt to strengthen his political force. Rather quickly, they identified the newest obstacle to their goals as being Liadan.


-------

It was autumn. The trees were bowered in golds and reds, for these were not Ædellic pines they stood amongst, but rather the tall deciduous trees of Duilluir. "I'll wait for you, I promise..." the woman whispered. "I know," he replied, stroking her silky hair, "I know..." Her full mouth parted from its smile as she bent her against his robed chest, breathing in the scent of the thick, soft black wool. “Darkling,” she whispered. “Whatever happens
 come back to me. Please, please, please, come back to me.”

A bony white hand cupped her pinked cheek and lifted the woman’s chin, so that her vivid green eyes were fixed on his dark blue. “Liadan,” he murmured. “Why are you so worried? Be I off to Occalus or to Calydon, or even yet the heart of Acerbus, you need not fear. Five months and we shall be re-united,
mo chroí. You know this, and I wouldn’t stop it for the world.” Her eyes darkened and she looked away, face drawn with some secret knowledge. Inexplicably, the Grey Lady’s fear leeched into her lover’s own flesh until he shivered and hugged her close, fiercely whispering enchantments which would bind him to her side the moment harm should come her way.

Unbeknownst to CiarĂĄn, Liadan too wove a little magic of her own that day. Before he departed she stole to his thick, heavy travelling cloak and his polished riding boots; with her blackest wool thread she stitched a protective charm. Whatever might befall the nobles, she would not have CiarĂĄn injured for their sakes. If, on the unsafe border the elvish and shifter nations were to meet, there should arise an opportunity for CiarĂĄn to place himself in the path of physical harm (as well she knew he would, rather than let his companions be wounded)... well. He would simply be incapable of it.


-------

Three months later the horrifying happened and Ciarán was running along paths he’d never stepped onto before, steeped in blackness he’d never allowed before. Clamorous whispers filled roads of strange stone and towering ruins older than the very world, yet formed into worldly shapes as suited the mind of their earth-bound brother. A vast bridge stretched off so far over empty space that fog shrouded it while the wide arc was still rising; Ciarán was heedless of it.

The road opened into a world of light and pain: Liadan and Aryanna, the latter screaming as two tentacle-haired, erotic beings clutched their slender elfin arms and stopped their movement. At his arrival the pair of them smiled simultaneously, twin portraits of languid malice. There
must have been some sort of telepathic link between them and their kind, for as their full lips curved so unpleasantly a whole host of Rau-lass melted out from the trees. Ciarán’s quick eyes darted from one, to another, to the next and he thought and calculated how he might kill them all—there were twelve of them all told—but ere he could begin his magic, a strange weight took hold of his mind and stopped him.

The Rau-lass seemed not to notice. “Lord Ædellic,” the viper holding Liadan purled, “such a...
pleasure to meet you at last.”

His throat was dry. CiarĂĄn said nothing and did nothing either, incapable of predicting their actions.

Taking his silence for what it was—attention—the wretched beast smiled and said, “we have a small proposition for you, lord elf, a minor agreement which may well benefit you in the long run.”

And because he could do nothing else, CiarĂĄn lifted his head and raised a brow, indicating that she continue.

But it was a slight, tall male with ragged black hair and a plotting face who suddenly slipped out of the trees and began to speak instead. “My lord,” Lothárn murmured, his eyes scorching like hot coals as he glared into Ciarán’s eyes, “I am afraid that there is very little choice left for the future of the elves. A fortnight to this day it so happened that I received a most peculiar missive from one of our mages. A telepath on the Northwood front. It might surprise you, Lord Ciarán, to know how ruthless and meticulous the master plan of the Rau-lass truly is and quite frankly? We don’t stand a chance.”

He stepped closer, taking Ciarán’s motionlessness for being his usual obstinacy. He came close until the two elves were practically nose-to-nose and in an emphatic, tried undertone, he said with deliberate enunciation of each word, “
Ciarán, this is no time for you to pause and ponder. Do you know what the future has in store for us? It has death, my liege. Every great family you ever knew will fall and Occalus will burn. There will be no salvation for anyone—I know this for a fact, boy. You would not listen to me when I bade you take the wisdom of the shadows and have only survived being tirn piecemeal by the Elders through some providential force, but listen to me if ever you choose to listen, there can be no such dallying about this matter. Let the Rau-lass into your province. Ally yourself to them, give them the greatest secrets of the Arandein and instruct them on every weakness in Occalus. Make yourself indispensable to them and when they have Aduro in their clutches and all our kinsmen are enslaved or dead, we at least will be free. The cost is great, Ciarán, no one ever said otherwise. But do it! If you have any sense in you, accept their aid! If you have any love for the lives of your countrymen, then do what you must to let them prosper!”

Yet even as he pushed forth with all his power of entreaty, even as he sought to turn his claim into an inevitable and there understandable action, Lothárn once again looked into the young lord’s eyes and saw therein that apathy and disdain which had always denied him. Steel, heat or ice might have been managed, but there was nothing so slippery as a sheer lack of care. The expression of it threw him off entirely. But he was desperate this time.

The regent spun about on his heel and stalked away, avoiding Aryanna’s wide, confused blue eyes and Liadan’s hate-filled, understanding green. Ciarán followed each footfall with white-faced anger, trying to think, trying to shrug off the strange weight on his arms and legs. And when Lothárn whispered, just barely audible, “convince him,” he was still powerless.

And it happened. The memory appeared to gain speed here, as though the experience were beyind bearing again. Liadan was threatened first, she was held before him and slowly ripped apart. And she screamed, how she screamed! It was all the sound in Ciarán’s world, all the sight and smell and feel was pain and blood and numbness, and he could do nothing! When blanched paler than paper and quivering from shock he still said nothing and Aryanna was next brought forth as persuasion—when his dear, darling, sweet little sister was brought with all her terror and tears, culled messily and slowly before his eyes—still he could do nothing. Something snapped within him then, something which lashed out and grabbed Aryanna in an invisible black blanket. It was the only part of him which could move.

It was only after the last tortured breath of life had left the despoiled child’s body and neither his love nor his sibling were anylonger there that the weight fell away and the shadow-mage’s pent-up frustration, rage and hatred detonated in a fell wave of darkness. It was a magic so profound that the glen was thrown into a premature night as the Rau-lass screamed and twisted, their telepathy and soul-magic suddenly powerless as the shadow-mage grew insubstantial and wild.

When their death-cries were all silenced, CiarĂĄn glided across the pine needles and scree to the only figure left standing. He looked straight through LothĂĄrn. Lip curling in disgust, the elf-mage suddenly lashed out and seized him by the throat, keep the man in his grasp thus as the shadows transported him to one of his many halls.

There was no word for the expressions on the faces of his supposedly loyal advisors when their lord suddenly appeared in their midst, materializing from the dark embroidery of a tapestry as though he had always been there. RĂșmil fell to his knees, fox-face paling. The woman beside him froze and step back. CiarĂĄn’s quick eyes settled on her, then flew to RĂșmil again. “You knew too,” he snarled, “as did your mate... how many of you knew, I wonder?” Though his voice now came harsh and low, it was the loudest sound in the sudden hush of the court. From stairs and other rooms elves trickled in. On every face was etched dread or confusion. Somehow, without consulting anyone or hearing everything, all of them knew that he’d found out. Even those few who had not been privy to the affairs—indicated by the honest confusion and trust on their faces—guess that something deeply, terribly wrong had occurred.

“LothĂĄrn,” CiarĂĄn whispered, sweeping along to regard each and every face as it was named. “RĂșmil, GirdĂșn,” he went through each councillor present; there were many more in the line of stewards at his other halls, and in the course of the day each would be met in the same fashion. “My
advisors good and true. You most honest of men, loyal to the death...”

“Henceforth I will no more be your lord, but neither will any of your foul-blooded line take my seat. From this day on your sentence is to be lordless.” Their fearful faces trembled, for this was a light verdict and such a thing was disproportionate to the heinous crime that each and every one of them must now regret allowing. Only in their failure did their morality return, tail begtween its legs like a cowardly dog.

“From this day on,” Ciarán whispered, trembling in the heat of his anger, “no beast, living or dead, may enter this realm who has the least sympathy for the Rau-lass.” Rubies and emeralds shattered and burst in the wake of his anger; as the dark lord passed each tapestry, the darkness between the threads seemed to grow over it like a deadly ink and consume the patterns whole. Stones exploded in his path. As Ciarán walked and spoke, the whole of his wounded being vented its anger in the destruction of the fair home once occupied by his family.

“From this day on,” he continued, “no man sympathizing with the Rau-lass may leave this land.” As Ciarán spoke, something changed within him. That black blanket he had thrown over Aryanna had never left. Now it unpeeled itself from a bright surface it surrounded, a brightness which flew into and coloured the shadow-mage’s words until they had become a spell, a bright spell that sank into the trees and the hearts of elves and beasts. It was not him that did this. It was wholly Aryanna; the Ædellic siblings were still together. But the brother was not willing to leave it at that.

“And,” he finally said, voice dropping to the soft hiss of steam from a kettle, “on the day that I die, let this land wither with me. On the day I die, let the dirt of the soil cling together until it is too stony to yield a lush harvest. Let the rivers keep their silt and never flood the banks with their fertility. Let each and every deer, rabbit, dove and animal of these forests hear your arrow even before it is nocked to the bow and to be warned by your shadow even if you are not near, so that you will starve and be forced to learn how to walk with the silence of ghosts, if you wish for any chance of feeding your wives and children, or even yourselves. Let those who you love most be afraid of the dark and see their worst terrors in the dead of night. And let every child of yours suffer for the sin of their fathers and be released from their fear and torment only when that father dies. But you,” he snarled, “will never take your lives by your own hands. You are immortal beings, and I condemn you to the barest of possible existences without the pleasure of death. Your hands will not cooperate when you try; your legs will not move when you wish them to. The curse for your betrayal of your lord will be hell on earth and it will never break for as long as you live.”


-------

Yet he found themselves in their grasp a second time and this time, it was the most powerful Rau-lass who bent his soul to her will until he finally left life and was beyond her forever.






“Now tell me that I would ever again aid them.” Niall shuddered.

The dark-haired man lapsed into silence, with an air of having had quite finished all that he came to say and that nothing more could be gotten of him. The lost Ædellic turned away from the younger rival lord. He seemed rather ready to leave the dream and allow Niall to sleep as planned, but then a thought seemed to occur to him and he turned about again. He approached Niall a last time and observed him thoughtfully. Then, with the air of a mother removing a resilient spot of dust from her child’s cheek, he licked the tip of a finger and ran it over the crease of both the younger elf’s eyelids, and traced the upper and lower lip. This alone was insufficient for him; the mage next lifted up Niall’s right hand, and his palm tingled as he felt Ciarán’s long finger tracing a circle over it and next repeating the procedure on his left hand. When the elf was done, Niall saw that both palms were obsidian. It was as though he had chosen to play in coal-ashes, bar that this was far smoother and natural shading than that which was to be had by mere dust. This was shadow. The mage lastly walked down to Niall’s feet—or where they were under the covers. Muttering in a foreign tongue, the language of crackling branches, gurgling streams, falling rain and death in a hailstorm, he again inscribed a circle in the air, leaving a trail of smooth jet in the wake of his words.

Niall quickly kicked aside the sheets and found the soles of his feet were as dark as his palms had been; he was willing to bet his eyelids and lips were streaked black as well. He cast a hard, scrutinizing look at the fallen lord, but the other did not heed it. His mind was already elsewhere and his deep, compelling blue gaze was fixed upon the half-moon sky. “Wait, Ciarán!” Niall snapped. “What is this?!” The lord paused and looked back at him.

“When I need you to do my work for me, you will do it,” he whispered. “Where I need you to go for me, you will go. You will be my eyes and voice beyond the Ædellic lands if ever I should need it be so, and should the heart and hands of Phoenix Raine weaken in battle, from your body I will go to her and give her my strength and resolve; and the stones, the trees, the flowers, the shade, the very darkness which is within us all will course in her limbs and renew her in battle.”




Niall awoke with a start. A raven flew away from his bedpost and Diarmuid fell to the wooden floor with a thump. For some odd reason, a chill hung over Niall, although he could have sworn he’d been sleeping well. He felt the sudden urge to examine his hands and feet. They were clean and normal. He wasn’t sure what else he’d been expecting.

Then Lilith entered the room and he remembered everything.


-------------


((Lilith/CiarĂĄn))

By early morning, when it was still dark and the she-elf had finally found sleep, it began to rain. The course of it started in a fine drizzle which would have been beautiful to those who saw it, for moonlight was strong in the region and illuminated the droplets where its shafts touched them. However, the clouds soon thickened and blotted out the silver orb. A deluge of rain then followed, falling in thick, obsidian sheets over the drooping pine boughs and the ragged-winged ravens. Fiacre, who had remained beside the windowsill of Lilith and Anahita’s room, croaked miserably; he would have stayed outside, a sodden spectre, had not a familiar and beloved voice whispered to his rain-chilled thoughts, enter the warmth, my kind Fiacre. The home is mine, not theirs, and I welcome your presence.

All the hunching shifting and trembling vanished in a spell as the bird’s head shot up, glassy eyes glittering. With an affirmative caw, the raven hopped a step into the air and landed on the windowsill, quickly working the latch so that the glass pane swung open, smooth and noiseless, and he hopped in. There was no wind or thunder tonight, only the heavy sound of the deluge beating the ceiling-stones and the earth; for the great bird this was providential, as he’d have been incapable of closing the opened portal again had the wind jerked it open and resisted the force of his beak and talons.

The air in here was... peacefully wary. The two women were silent sleepers, and the air of femininity tempered by knowledge of their natures made the scene peculiarly safe and active in a blow. It was not something a normal bird should have appreciated.

Fiacre flew to the mantle, as the she-elf had claimed the hearth. Over the embers of the fire he crouched, wings held out on either side to facilitate their drying. The image made the voice in his head laugh. The bird tipped his head and blinked at the shadows; though he did not speak for the sake of the resting women, the ruff of feathers about his throat rose with its swelling and then fell, like the furrowed brows of an elf. My apologies, sweeting, I did not wish to offend you. Ciarán’s voice, smile-tinged, sounded young and child-like, the voice of a boy. It was only that your shuffling and your outstretched wings made you seem as of an old human man. The image of such a figure was briefly etched into the raven’s memory, to which Fiacre irately preened his feathers. Your business, my one true master. Fechín had the elfling lord, but for she you lack a link-- this you know. Master, I love you, but waste no time on my heart. It will not kill me to wait another week or month ere your strength allows you to speak again, and her country is at stake.

Wise words and too honest... my mind wanders again. The forest takes it. Thank you, Fiacre. The raven close his eyes and bent his beak sorrowfully into the slippery feathers of his breast. If it were in the power of a bird to cry, a tear would have slipped from his spruce-bark eyes, for the fate of the one elf remaining out of four elves he’d loved.

A penumbra fell over Lilith, visible only to the raven. It was CiarĂĄn, bending over her and placing a hand on her forehead-- shadow, no more than shadow. Not even a physical form here; he was reserving his strength. With a deep mental sigh that reverberated among all three of the ravens, their heart-lord fell to his knees beside the woman and then crumpled over her, shadow falling upon shadow, until the darkness ceased to be visible and entered her mind.


----------


Lilith wandered through the never-ending hall, occasionally taking various turn-offs. The stonework made her think of the Academy hallways, though she could truthfully say she didn’t ever recall this particular set of corridors. Such is the nature of dreams, she thought to herself. In this dream, she had the feeling that she was supposed to be doing something, or finding something, but she didn’t know quite what.

A raven hopped out from some corner of the corridor that was not a corner, but an abstraction of the dream-hall. The raven’s form was not wholly avian either, for in another skip the bird grew taller, and when he landed on his feet again he was not a bird, but a young man-- a long-haired elf with slender features and an immortal air. The clothes he wore were of fine make, though all in black, and embroidered scantly with gold and silver. He turned to Lilith with an ephemeral air, as though a candle flame had suddenly decided it wanted to speak with her; a sense of purpose emanated from his being.

Lilith eyed the elf for a moment. She had seen the elf Ciarán once in passing the year before, and this dream-elf now bore slight resemblance to him, if only that Ciarán weren’t half-starved and were better dressed. What the h*ll is wrong with me? she idly wondered. First she had been commenting on Niall’s chest, now she was dreaming of attractive versions of a man she had never properly met. Letting it go as one of the strange ideas of the dreaming mind-- and making a note that something should be done about her wandering thoughts-- she continued walking down the hall, which rapidly opened up into a large, cathedral-like room with nearly invisible ceilings somewhere above in the gloom.

“Wait,” a soft voice spoke, fluid and young. Ciarán stood in earnest by the wall. “Lilith Indracrés, I have much news to tell you, and little time or magic left to tell it.”

Lilith ignored the spectre of her mind. While the message was most unusual (for her dreams, at least), she didn’t feel like talking to what was, ultimately, a figment of her imagination.

Ciarán’s brows knit together in consternation, and he swore a light oath. “Lilith, you must listen to me-- and listen now! I have spoken to Niall Ælfher already tonight, but I have not told him all. The fate of Aduro depends on your heeding my words, and think what you will, you may confirm that this was no dream on the morrow. You need only ask Niall of what his dreams were for as much proof! But time wastes, and this is of the imperative. Even if you think it only a dream, listen to this dream! My time here comes only with the half-moon, and it wanes as dawn grows nearer.”

Lilith sighed. This was certainly the most bizarre dream she’d ever had-- part of her mind asking her to listen, even while knowing it to be false-- but she might as well humor herself. She was more than certain that this was just a side affect of her constant pessimistic thoughts about the fate of Aduro, but it wouldn’t hurt. Besides, it wasn’t like she had anything else do to. She was concerned about herself, however; it was a certain indication of her growing arrogance if she were dreaming that it was important for her to hear something that would save Aduro. She’d have to do something about that...

Leaning against a pillar, she raised one brow shadowed by her cowl at the dream-CiarĂĄn.

The young elf-lord did not expend time on acknowledging things then, but launched straight into his explanations, casting a concerned eye to the stone walls as though he could already see the sky beyond. “You are a metal-mage,” he said, “and this is vital. You’re the only metal-mage who may use both the dagger possessed by yourself and that possessed by Sorea Pardai, two of a very few selection of weapons to have ever been imbued with metal-magic. In these knives there is a rare combination of magics-- poison, faery, telepathic, fire, and metal. “ The words were delivered eloquently, if clear diction could ever claim to substitute for vocabulary in that regard, and at a clip that said the elf was both in a rush and delivering something unprepared, if well considered.

“This is greatly important. Queen Nstif’ikta I’lar, leader of the Rau-lass forces, cannot be stopped unless you do as I ask you to. Her death will come by the sword of Phoenix Raine, yet Raine is ill-matched against her in magic and soldier-ship; the queen has lived untold centuries, gained experience that has only honed extant talent. Raine cannot beat her. Not unless you recover the other dagger, the one possessed by Sorea Pardai and now in the hands of her murderer--,” Ciarán had never met Astrophel Soryuu by name, “and then forge a sword of them. The metal-magic you bear is necessary to serve this end, for the daggers are already twice-forged, and the sword undoctored by your skill will be brittle, a useless weapon. The person to make this sword must have the signature of yourself or Pardai-- thus, it may be either her right hand, the man who bears half her soul, or her sister, the one who bears the remnants of her magic.”

Ciarán bowed his head, glaring darkly at the floor. It was a degree of expression not exhibited by him while he had lived. “I cannot tell any of this to Anahita Pardai. Ere she died, Sorea attempted a black magic on her younger sister, a soul-transfer that proved unsuccessful, but which bound the faery’s spirit to her sibling.” Perhaps out of reflection of the elf’s thoughts, there was the sound of clacking boots and from the distant side of the hall, a replication of Sorea strode across the room and disappeared, intent on something but unaware of the other two.

“Sooooooooo...” Lilith murmured, drawing out the word and examining her gloved fingertips-- she’d be examining her fingernails, but in this dream she still had gloves on and didn’t feel like making them vanish-- “let’s pretend for a moment, just a moment, mind, that you’re not a figment of my imagination created by prolonged lack of decent sleep, strange surroundings, and the usual images created during sleep. If we play this game of pretend, it means that you are some other entity. Now, continuing our game of pretend and presuming that you are who you say you are-- Ciarán Ædellic-- how would you be in my head right now, messing up my dreams? And,” here she pointed to where the image of Sorea walked by, “was she a result of you, me, or neither?

“Continuing to suppose that all of the aforementioned points hold true, I have another question to ask of you: what the hell have you been smoking? I will agree with you that the human can’t beat the Rau-lass queen--” the fact of the matter was that you were talking about a human versus an old, deadly, vicious being with magic that was (in any fair, reasonable universe) cheating (unless it was your side that had it) “--but you’re saying that I have to use my-- how did you put it?-- skill to undo something that even my master can undo.

“Mr.-I-Swear-I’m-Not-A-Part-Of-Your-Sleeping-Brain, do you realize how bloody impossible that’s going to be? If that’s the only way Aduro and Acerbus will be free of the Rau-lass, then we all might as well commit suicide now. If you’re the creepy stalker guy that you seem to be, you’ll know that I don’t even have a nodding acquaintance with control, much less the power to do as you seem to feel is necessary. Oh,” she said brightly, her entire face lighting up, a small smile brushing across her face “and did I forget to mention that more and more control slips out of my grasp with every passing day? Now how do you propose that, in a very short amount of time, I learn how to do what you want? I have neither the time nor the resources to keep my abilities at the level they were, much less to improve upon them.

“All of which brings me to another question,” she continued airily. “Why should I trust you? I seem to recall that Ciarán Ædellic sided with the Rau-lass. What argument could you possibly give me that would make me trust a traitor?” Here, Lilith ignored the thought that, even by using many different definitions of the word, she could be marked as a traitor herself.

The elf almot seemed to scream in helpless anger at those very last words; say rather, the dream screamed while he remained stock-still and composed bar a twisted, heavily wounded expression. “Ask Niall,” he murmured simply. “As him. He knows all the rest-- I gave him my history, as I could link directly to the elf through the power of my ravens and the little wild-mage. I,” he whispered, and his blue eyes burned hellfire, “I never, never sided with the Rau-lass. Not from my forced conscription to my dying breath did I ever give heart or allegiance to the murderers who killed in cold blood my mother, my father, my child sister, and the woman I would have called my own for all eternity. Never. I loathe them as darkness loathes light, or as fire does water; nothing... nothing...” He broke off, a hand pressed against his ghastly pale forehead.

The fine-dressed young elf stared uncomprehendingly into the air for a moment, features still pressed into a stunned mask of shock.

But then he collected himself, just as Lilith was about to prod him. “Don’t distract me yet,” he requested, “please. My mind wanders without a physical manifestation to ground it; and I have not told you all.” Lilith eyed the dark-haired elf suspiciously, but otherwise remained silent. If this were all a dream, it didn’t matter. But on the off chance that it wasn’t... Well, it couldn't hurt. Though the bit about not having a "physical manifestation" was a rather interesting phrase choice that she wished to comment on, Lilith remained silent.

Ciarán took a deep, shuddering breath and exhaled, arms crossed over his chest. “I work to destroy the Rau-lass,” he said simply, “and to restore Aduro to what it must be. Now please, listen.” Oh, and what do you think I’m doing right now? Lilith thought crossly. “I will answer the rest if dawn does not break before I finish.”

“The sword you give Phoenix Raine must have elements of Signum Vulnus, so that it may heal her wounds, for she will receive many of them in combat with the immortal queen. It must have your metal-magic to make it a sword without equal, to break bone and flesh in a single sweep-- for a single sweep may be all she gets-- and to withstand battery from even the direst of black magics. It must be a blade imbued with poison and capable of manipulating poison, for Rau-lass and atrox drip venom that would damage the sword-wielder if the sword itself did not have the ability to right the misfortuned incursion. With Sorea Pardai woven into it, as well as Aryanna and myself, you will help the faery Anahita forge a weapon that can cut through souls and shadow, not just flesh and sinew, and with Aryanna woven into it the sword may swipe through minor enchantments. I ask a great deal of you, young metal-mage, a very great deal, the sort of thing born of legend and myth, but you have the power for it-- believe me, you do.”

“The second thing I ask of you is more readily done than the forging of the sword. You know Darragh Unorian by now, and you know him to be loyal to Lysander and vice-versa. Do not trust Darragh, and trust no Unorian whatsoever.” His eyes flashed black as he spoke, and the mien of the raven seemed to hang like a mantle over the well-formed shoulders. “Darragh and his brothers, his father and the patriarch of the line, they take a deadly gamble and dare not play false lest the price they pay be that which Lysander shall see ere he leave the land of elves.”

With a second concerned glance to the wall, Ciarán murmured, “know this of the Unorians: their patriarch, Parthalán Unorian, is an elf great in stature and in power. You may readily recognize him as the tall and stillest in any company; he is of the second generation of Unorians, a man who was old enough to go to battle in the time of Dragutin and Ivona, the height of the Ælfher’s blossoming flower. His power has only grown since then, and it had now become so subtle and nefarious a power that he need not even summon it for it to fall about him like an insidious robe, a power that undulates with the waves of his feelings and at the slightest consideration of a thought, let alone the enacting of it, becomes a deadly dart: the manipulation of emotions. Whatever High Lord Parthalán wishes to know, he will know if one with the knowledge should be in his presence. And what does Lysander know that he may wish to know? He knows where Signum Vulnus is, no doubt; he knows many strategic points of any budding rebellion, no doubt; most importantly, he knows how to find and capture Phoenix Raine or failing that, Argenti Malkeya. Let Parthalán even think that he might fancy such information, and it will be beyond Lysander to not feel that he must tell this wise, powerful elf, this leader of generations whose wisdom might help shed valuable light on his predicament. Another like him, but far, far weaker is the IonodaÍ of the seventh Unorian generation: Cathal. You need not wholly fear him, but you must avoid him if you may.”

“Events have conspired against you party, Lilith. They have conspired with Darragh, and they conspire to bring you before Parthalán before you’re safe from their reaches. It is too much to ask that you kill the Unorian lordling, though much trouble would be spared if he and the canine that loves him were drawn out of the equation. Instead, I ask this: if ever it seems that you must voyage to the Unorian province, concoct a potion which can by some means be delivered to Lysander. It must be simple, effective in small quantities, and discreet. What it must do is this: either remove his emotions before he steps foot in the province, or else knock him out from some natural-seeming cause when he comes into the presence of the High Lord-- grief comes to mind, for he will grieve on returning home-- and in achieving unconsciousness, place himself beyond the reaches of Lord Parthalán.”

“If you fail to make the sword, you fail to make the best weapon by which Aduro may be saved; if you fail to rescue Lysander from his emotions, all may be lost and Aduro will fall to darkness, as will all places around it.”

“Lastly: when you return to Signum Vulnus, remove Phoenix Raine from his grasp. She wastes her time with him, when she must train hard and fast to meet this menace beyond her skill. She must be there for the forging of the sword and because she is unique, a vessel for magic-- hence her ability to be a repository for both the light magic of Ymandra Llanna and my own shadow-speech-- she must be taught how to wield her powers. There are many forces amassing in Aduro to fight, as the heads of a hydra rounding in on a target, but it is Phoenis who is the greatest of these heads, and it is she who has the best chance of lopping the head off of the Rau-lass war machine.”

“That is the most I may say. Leave quickly; another will answer your questions come evening. She will tell you what I have not the time for-- that is, how to forge the sword. Leave. The shadow of darkness will protect you this night, but it will be another moon-cycle ere my strength will be so great. Take the safety while it is there-- flee for the north border.”

The young elf sighed and fell against the wall. For a moment he was still, hand pressed against his forehead again. Then a shaft of moonlight fell upon him, moonlight out of nowhere, and the elf burst into a flock of ravens who, in a storm of caws and inky feathers, flapped into the vast beyond.


---------------------


Lilith rolled off of the couch and landed on her knees with a rather heavy thunk, throwing a pillow at the still-sleeping Anahita. “Anahita,” she hissed, not at all sure what had woken her up, her eyes already roving around the room. The embers had died down to almost nothing, and the window was open to the drizzling sky outside. Small shadows interrupting the light coming from the crack under the door indicated that there were several someones-- little someones-- outside.

Closing and locking the window, Lilith strode to the door and opened it a fraction, borrowed clothing rumpled and hair rather tussled, the string she had been using to keep it back lying on the floor next to the couch. Her cold, irritated look first caught a guard standing across the hall-- his post had obviously crept closer to their rooms as the night progressed, something that irked her greatly-- due to the fact that he wasn’t below eye level. Or waist level, for that matter.

Her gaze settled on Anrai, hand tentatively raised to knock again. A couple of the other children had followed their companion across the hall, and several other pairs of small eyes peered at her from across the hall.

“What are you doing?” she hissed, looking ready to kill all of them. Being the most diplomatic, if also among the most soft-spoken of them, it was Anrai who headed the response-- finding that no other volunteer was willing to speak to an adult so intimidating in her presentation. “The little ones had nightmares,” he said in plain, stumble-about Elvish (somewhat ignorant of his own status as a little one). “And when they awoke, Murtagh was afraid because of the big korbl* and wouldn’t stop making a fuss, even when Fionnoula tried to calm him. They would all like to see Anahita-síog, please.” He was possibly the one child who properly pronounced the faery’s name.

Lilith eyed the child, pure murder in her eyes. She looked over her shoulder at Anahita, who was sitting up. Very, very resentfully, she opened the door further, stepping into the hall and holding it open. “She’s in the bed,” she muttered through gritted teeth. The children hesitated for a moment-- likely debating whether it was worth going past her in order to receive Anahita’s comfort-- then scampered in, the room across the hall emptying as those not initially brave enough to cross the big, scary hallway followed their friends.

Unable to take out her utterly feigned, utterly convincing rage on the children, Lilith’s eyes snapped onto the next best thing-- the guard. “Why are you so close?” she snapped. “And for pity’s sake, what the hell are you even doing here? After weeks and weeks of travelling through the wilderness, setting camp in the worst by-ways any elf would have to endure, and sleeping on dank earth, we’re not going to pass up a night in a bed just to wander around. Go away,” she barked, spinning on her heel and slamming the door almost as hard as she could. Many pairs of startled eyes-- belonging to tense, panicked bodies-- greeted her, but then moved back to Anahita as Lilith made her way back to the couch, the faintest beginnings of a largely unnoticed smile playing on her lips.

It died, however, as the memory of her dream came back to her, and Lilith sat on the couch, resting her forehead on her clasped hands. With the slightest shake of her head, she got up. She’d dwell on it all later-- with the important exception of possibly-Ciarán’s last words.

Grabbing her cloak, she donned it and changed into her clothes underneath it. Running her fingers though her hair in lieu of a comb, she tied it back again and walked out of the room. A thin, black-haired elf looked up from where he’d been paring a scrap of wood at a distance, his over-large eyes following her strides with those of his companion elf (both their gauntnesses made their features seem slightly over-sized); beyond that, they did nothing.

Lilith’s long legs easily took her down the hall, following the path to Niall’s room. Another guard was there but as of the others, he made no motion to hinder her movement; he merely observed her path, again seeming to mentally note with that shared language of the forest-scouts the things she did, the way she did it, and other minor nuances.

Niall’s room was locked. Lilith knocked once, then slid a lockpick out from beneath her sleeve and was able to get into the room before the man had a chance to let her in. “Niall, Diarmuid,” she said, shutting the door behind her, “get your things, we’re leaving. The kids are in a state of near-panic, Anahita isn’t doing too well herself, and even I’m feeling uneasy about this place. I know that I have a history of being a little paranoid, but I really believe we should go. Now,” she said, to emphasize the point.

Niall looked up at her from where’s he’d been sitting cross-legged on the bed, shirtless as was his wont when sleeping. “I know,” he murmured. “His lordship sent me visions as well.”



*Regional colloquialism; although the forest-elves call ravens fiach, sea-side elves know them as korbl or fiach.
Last edited by ShadowPhoenix on Mon Jul 11, 2011 8:02 pm, edited 9 times in total.

Tip jar: the author of this post has received 0.00 INK in return for their work.

User avatar
ShadowPhoenix
Member for 16 years
Conversationalist

Re: Freedom Forsaken

Tips: 0.00 INK Postby ShadowWake on Fri Jul 08, 2011 10:27 am

((Hylas/Lord Tarron))

Hylas grinned, happily squashed against Selan’s side, as he stuffed the last morsel of pastry into his mouth and swallowed. His leg was jiggling – as it had a tendency to do when he was fidgety – but at the tired look on Eadmar’s face, pressed his hand against it to stop it. Selan was asking some good questions, he thought. They needed to know what was happening so that they could help properly and not get in the way. Nana had always told him that helping in ignorance was worse than not helping at all; he didn’t know what ignorance meant, but he certainly remembered his bellyache from picking the wrong kind of apples at harvesting time: which was what had prompted the comment from his grandmother in the first place.

But he was bigger and cleverer now, he thought with pursed lips and a frown; that at least had to count for something, right? Maybe he could help properly this time, instead of watching – like he did with his parents – or running away – like he did when the Rau-lass came. He wasn’t a little kid anymore. Hylas frowned deeper. It was true Selan and Tarn knew that – after all, he had helped them escape from the temple – but adults didn’t always believe other adults, even their friends. He thought it silly: surely if they were your friend, you could trust them with anything? He got the feeling somehow that some of his new friends would not believe it though, even if Selan who was an adult said it was ok for him to fight; they would lock him in his room – or worse, take him away from his family.

Hylas suddenly grinned. Well, he would just have to find a way to escape if that happened. He was good at climbing, despite the fact that it scared him, and there was sure to be an escape route out of the underground camp somewhere. Decision made, he was about to tell the others of his plan (for they were his friends after all and could be trusted not to tell anyone), when a massive old man with skin the colour of mud walked into the hall. If that awesome sight alone wasn’t enough, everyone stood up and bowed, so him and Selan stood up too, copying everyone. Hylas peeked to check he was allowed to straighten before staring at the man again. He didn’t see what was so special about him; he looked like an ordinary old man, though his head was higher than anyone else’s in the room... that was pretty cool. He wondered longingly whether he could ever grow that big, as he watched the man nod and say a few words to someone near him. And then all of a sudden, the man was staring at him too.

Unnerved slightly, Hylas shifted into his favourite tiny weasel and clambered up Selan’s arm, hiding under her hair. Tugging on her ear, he indicated that he wanted her to tell him who the man was, for she seemed to know him; at least, she was smiling as he came towards them. The man didn’t smile when he got close but his eyes went all wrinkly at the corners for a moment. “So this must be one of your companions,” he rumbled in a voice that sounded like thunder, as he tilted his head to peer between Selan’s locks at him. Paralysed with a mixture of awe and terror, Hylas froze under the man’s stare, clinging to Selan’s throat.

Tip jar: the author of this post has received 0.00 INK in return for their work.

User avatar
ShadowWake
Member for 16 years
Promethean Conversation Starter Author Inspiration Conversationalist Friendly Beginnings Lifegiver

Re: Freedom Forsaken

Tips: 0.00 INK Postby Alacer Phasmatis on Fri Aug 05, 2011 4:30 pm

((Morena/Bregan))

Hush!

Morena heard them rather than saw them and for a faery, that is a sign of proximity rather than good forewarning. She pressed her back against a tree trunk, squinting ahead with a hand cupped over her mouth— she was from Silvanos. The faery border-town had seen its fair share of elves. An elf could hear her breath which, whenever she tried to make it slow and deep, contained just the hint of an uneven rattle. Morena’d been improving, though.

Her right hand curved back, slowly and cautiously, to her shoulder. There it found an arrow and her fingers curled tightly around the rough-hewn wooden shaft. But then it occurred to her that they were too close and that Breg couldn’t fly—and that he was nervous because she was nervous—so her hand opened again and she palmed the skinning-knife at her belt instead. The crossbow was her skill, but this was not a distance suited to bows.

A petulant confusion pressed on her mind, insistent and antsy and ever so slightly whiny. No words came with it, just a force of needy emotion. Breg’s hard hand clamped tersely on her shoulder. She hissed, her left hand shooting up to cup the cracked fingertips and she whispered, “Ow!” The other faery’s hand tightened in further alarm and she sent him a sharp, mental rap.

Hst, Bregan. We’re in danger, maybe. Quiet yourself. Her thoughts were more articulate than she was.

A problem, a very big problem, then developed with more alarming rapidity than Morena could react to. Bregan had latched onto the concept of trouble enthusiastically, roughly, because he was good at dealing with trouble and in their travel, the tackling of highwaymen, mercenaries, slavers, and atrox (long ago, a group of five) all fell to him. Her big, burly half-brother with the honest eyes and honey-brown hair shoved her back and behind him as he pelted out towards the menace. “BACK OFF!” He roared, and with his formidable telepathy he amplified the threat until it rang in the heads of the attackers. Morena swore, picked herself up and ran after him. “No, Breg, no!” She exclaimed, shoving branches out of her way, what if they’re Rau-lass you big dummy?!

Her brother had barged into the deep undergrowth of a coppice and she didn't fully see the scene until she’d stumbled upon it. All she’d found out while dashing to him was that the low voices were not Rau-lass, because neither telepath picked up on what they imagine would be a suitably sinister, alluring mental presence. Now she saw and stopped, heart hammering and hands quickly sheathing the knife and grabbing the crossbow. Her muddy eyes glinted.

Morena Farrenborn did not cut an imposing figure, although Bregan Farrenborn most certainly did. She was small, wiry, both dark-tanned and totally freckled from the sun, and the rich luster of her fir-bark hair had been streaked mouse brown and frizzled on top, also from the sun. She was thin, with prominent elbows and a chest that might be seen in a fitted bodice with no corset, but she’d never worn a fitted bodice (much less a corset) and in her loose dress, her figure was ganglishly flat. Whether her knees were as knobby as her elbows was disguised by over-large breeches. From their size it was clear that the trousers were those of her well-built, faery-light half-brother (who now stood with his clipped wings outstretched, like a bristle-furred wolf and—AURELIUS those WERE wolves he was facing!)

Swallowing, Morena lowered her weapon. They were very painfully and obviously outnumbered in a physical fashion. Unless these were really strong mages, Breg could still get them out of this fix, but he might also dig them in deeper. With a tight, bungled smile she slipped to his side and snatched his arm in hers. Her thin mouth split into a tense grin and she said half-nervously and half-sunnily, “so sorry ‘bout Breg, we were meaning no harm, he—um, he don’t like wolves so much and
 and
 he like as not wants you to go away?” Her grin faltered. Morena added, between clenched teeth, “So if ye’re all so kind as to leave us be we’ll do the same, and we’re sorry for the bother if ye’re all just honest folk.” She was backing away, trying to drag her lump of brother with her. “He’s a skittish fella.” Bregan, if they don’t leave, hit ‘em with your head. Otherwise, we’ll go and they’ll go. If they’re thinking of goin’ to Rau-lass or atrox or somesuchlike, hit ‘em anyhow.

Tip jar: the author of this post has received 0.00 INK in return for their work.

Alacer Phasmatis
Member for 16 years
Promethean Conversation Starter Author Conversationalist Lifegiver

Re: Freedom Forsaken

Tips: 0.00 INK Postby ShadowWake on Sat Sep 10, 2011 11:14 am

((Phoenix))

Picking up the subtle signs from her pack, Phoenix stilled, raising a hand to warn Tibault against collision as he walked up close behind her. Beyond that, the twins’ whispered bickering seemed loud enough for the human soldier to wince, wishing once more that she had found allies among the light-footed, softly-spoken elves. The thought brought an unbidden smile to her lips, reminded of the rebels’ pretentious copper-haired companion, for in truth, she could remember few moments when the elf hadn’t been vocal.

Smile dropping rapidly, Phoenix watched the wolves pad protectively at the fringes of the small group, and felt the hairs on the back of her neck stand: as though mimicking the raised hackles of the pack members. At the fore, Bran twisted his head to fix his sharp gaze on hers with a low growl of warning, and Phoenix softly drew her sword, green gaze searching through the foliage. But as the twins joined Tibault – the sullen barmaid throwing yet another biting comment at her sibling – Phoenix spun on her heel, releasing her two-handed grip to prod angrily at the woman’s chest.

“You-,” Phoenix snapped in a harsh whisper, unable to restrain her temper any further, “-are going to get yourself and the rest of us killed.” Unwilling to accept Lari’s dismissive glare, she let the tip of her blade rest on the leaf mulch, grasping the front of the barmaid’s tunic with her free hand and pulling her close, until their noses were less than an inch away. Surprisingly, both men seemed happy to let the scene play out, simply removing themselves quietly from the firing line as Lari glowered in outrage, silent for once. “Now,” Phoenix stated in a fierce murmur once she was sure she had the woman’s undivided attention, “I have had enough of your trust issues. Do you honestly think I would be stupid enough to take on four fully grown faeries? Or-“ she amended sharply, seeing the faery’s look, “-do you simply believe that you are all too weak to defend against a single pitiful human woman?” Lari narrowed her gaze, her fists clenching, and Phoenix snorted derisively. “No, that’s right, I’m a human traitor with unimaginable powers that is leading you on a merry chase into the woods in order to hand you over to my Rau-lass buddies, despite the fact that I could apparently destroy you all in an instant.”

Shoving the woman away in disgust, Phoenix tapped the scars on her cheek angrily. “I got these from one of the bitches that stole my memories, strangely enough while I was fighting under the command of one of your own military telepaths, who trusted me happily enough after she scoured my mind.” Finding her nose curling in distaste at the Lari’s suspicious expression, she continued bitterly. “And if that isn’t enough for you,” rolling up the sleeve of her sword-arm, she displayed the still-withered flesh, fighting back unwanted memories, “I received this after a period among the Rai’alssa dungeons, courtesy of the demoness that calls herself Queen of these foul creatures. Without Argenti’s healing, I would’ve died.”

Turning her face away from the barmaid’s blank stare, Phoenix shook her shirt-sleeve back into position, swallowing against the sudden knot in her throat. “There is more than one victim in this war, Lari. And you are more a fool than I thought if you believe otherwise.”

Sighing, she lifted her gaze, emerald eyes settling once on the girl before hefting her sword back into a defensive hold again. “Go, if you must. But in any case, whatever the wolves have spotted will be on us in a moment, so you either help us get through it and leave safely or you can bloody well deal with it on your own.”

Bran’s rumble changed promptly into a snarl, a long drawn-out cry echoing it from the woodland before them, and Phoenix turned swiftly, angling her sword across her body. Barely a moment after the wolf’s lips curled upwards to expose his pearly canines in threat, a massive figure burst through the undergrowth with a roar, brandishing his arms like weapons. Wings flared behind him and she heard Remus mutter ’clipped’, just as a young girl darted beneath said appendages to the man’s side, a knife glinting as she tucked it away in favour of a formidable-looking crossbow – held with apparent ease. Surprised by the unexpected tableau, Phoenix simply gaped – a frown gracing her brow – as the girl visibly swallowed, falling into a nervous chatter.

Suddenly realising that the pair were beginning to retreat uneasily and at the same time she had mentally concluded that they weren’t going to cause trouble, Phoenix dropped her two-handed stance, whistling sharply at the pack to bring them back close. Only when Bran was at her side, obediently silent, did the human soldier raise a hand peaceably (though the gesture was more for Lari than the newcomers).

“We don’t intend to cause trouble; neither do we mean harm,” she said softly, taking a step backwards as though in acquiescence, “We’re simply trying to find a way out of this mess. I met the others in the city and we’re making our way back to friends of mine, who know of somewhere safe we can stay.” Noting the state of the pair’s clothing, she added, “You’re welcome to come, though I understand that I am no more than a stranger to you.”

Resisting a glance in the barmaid’s direction, Phoenix smiled briefly, knowing that there was little way to convince them to join the rebels; presently, she wasn’t even sure how much she could trust them herself. Seeing the big man Bregan linger on the wolves – the girl’s eyes following his gaze – she smiled quickly again. “Friends too. I’ve spent a lot of time in the countryside recently and it seems I have a knack for animal communication. They won’t hurt you.”

Tip jar: the author of this post has received 0.00 INK in return for their work.

User avatar
ShadowWake
Member for 16 years
Promethean Conversation Starter Author Inspiration Conversationalist Friendly Beginnings Lifegiver

Re: Freedom Forsaken

Tips: 0.00 INK Postby Alacer Phasmatis on Sun Oct 16, 2011 5:37 pm

((Melchios))

A pair of cold, grey eyes scanned the horizon of tents. Over-looming their secretive regard was a set of umber brows, seeming all the darker against the backdrop of untanned skin. The Unorian elf must have reached a conclusion, for he turned with his horse, a beautiful creature blacker than jet, and entered the Rau-lass encampment with quick, decisive strides. From his business-like manner, one would have been uncertain of whether the situation had any emotional impact on him at all.

Even Morteza was unsure. His calm doubt, coupled with active deduction, gavet he faery an unusual scope of clarity. This was not ParthalĂĄn for whom the answer would be evident (the logician being ever more readable, if not half so bendable, as a creature of emotion). This was his protĂ©gĂ©, for whom it was grey. The elf doubtless felt more vulnerable without his magic, which only made steel of his iron bearing, although there was some scant information to be gleaned therein: it easier for the man to eliminate or hide his emotions rather than present false levity or relaxation, making his very distance an indicator of unease. Perhaps, though, it did not matter much to him, as occasionally occurred in older elves—this elf had seen nearly 550 eons (534 was the exact number?)—and then too, he could be a creature naturally prone to a business-like mindset in business-oriented situations. If the elf was difficult to piece together, though, the Arandein was no easier—that much could be gathered when the Unorian made no move to be more politically personable, but rather remained aloof. He did not know how to connect to the Arandein either.

“Morteza Melchios,” The elf sang in a voice like champagne. Most Unorians had uniquely hoarse-edged dogs’ tones. Not Parthalán, not his get. “It has been such a while. I gather that you have not been too harsh in your treatment of the Ælfher?”

Morteza merely smiled benignly. “You could have seen Altair yourself and asked,” he warmly teased, taking the elf by the arm so as to relocate them both in more private quarters. The reward for his comment: the steel shattered with fleeting weakness. Those sentinel eyebrows twitched just so lightly up and back, but their vigilant possessor cut off the action of his errant expression. Altair had been close to this elf and they were both Ionodaí, heads of a generation. Melchios had a leash over their noble correspondent as secure as that being actively tied around Lysander.

When both were situated, the elf afforded himself a sparing smile (although Morteza had seen him in his natural state numerous times before and knew how much more broad, relaxed, and playful his expressions could be). His hematite horse could be heard shifting and stamping outside. “Darragh’s managed to leave reports in spite of Diarmuid’s interference,” the Unorian stated. “You may relay to your queen-“

Morteza’s eyes narrowed dangerously. The elf rectified himself. “-to the Rau-lass’s queen, that they went north to the Ædellic border. Ciarán no doubt anticipated that her reach would overwhelm Aduro after his death, given that Darragh reports a strange magical guard which prevents both him and Lysander from entering the land. Pardai’s younger sister, the nameless albino—I will give her name after we meet her, for canines clearly cannot sound it out—Niall, and the kidnapped subjects all were admitted without issue. Unfortunately, this means that we cannot know precisely where the albino is taking them. However, the party intends to reconvene northwest of the border, and Darragh was given the means by which the albino will relocate them.”

“Lord Lysander is loyal to Darragh, naturally.” Morteza’s right hand clenched around a quill as he remarked upon this—the shaft of the delicate pen coming close to snapping. “Lysander is,” the elf nodded.

“Lord Unorian,” Morteza warned, “your brother is a weakness.”

“I protest that you underestimate him, or confuse his nature with Lysander’s” the elf replied with stellar calm, neither too quick in his defense nor seeming the least bit alarmed. “Darragh’s friendship with Lysander is secondary to his understanding of the logical aspects in his situation. I have known both Ælfher brothers from their infancy, knew well the kindness of High Lord Nieander, and attempted to teach Lysander something of hunting and sport. But all emotions are weighed on balance against other emotions, and to their relation one must also add the force of circumstance. It is stupidity, plain and simple, to not be true to the cause which our whole family has espoused; Darragh has never been stupid.” He uttered the last word with a light curl of contempt, as though the very notion were a bitter alcohol— audaciously offered to him and duly snubbed.

“You’re lying,” Melchios laughed, “but no matter. I did not want Darragh to remain beside Lysander for much longer anyhow.”

“I think the queen would rule otherwise,” the elf snapped, but he fell back into distance as quickly as he’d bared his fangs.

With a languid, paternal smile, the faery shook his head. Patronizingly. “Don’t worry your head for his life, Lord Unorian—I never even suggested we kill him.” The elf’s stony features hinted otherwise. He seemed almost humorously deadpan. “All I said,” Morteza’s air gained a bit more pointedness, “is that he cannot continue beside Lysander. Can you guess why, Lord Unorian? Any theories at all?”

Those cold grey eyes looked like swords. “Aradein Melchios, you would like to kill him,” he spoke bluntly, personally. “I have no patience for being teased on such a topic. Carry on with your intents and do not toy further.”

“You’re a very poor diplomat when your heartstrings are tugged,” the faery mused, a twinkle in his eye. “I don’t want your brother dead at all, silly creature—he’s still necessary.” Ah, if he could have but seen how this impacted the elf; Morteza imagine he was beating himself against a wall in his thoughts, but it simply didn’t translate to his divine, solemn facial planes. With a sigh of relaxation, Melchios purred, “telepaths on our enemies’ side are a problem, Lord Unorian.”

The elf snorted. “I sincerely doubt that Raine or Vulnus have had any luck in recruiting their kind. It requires a certain luxury of trust, Morteza, for either the hunted mage or the hunted subversive to be able to breach the fear of their foes’ powers to a degree that would allow their partnership. That said, when the memory of just how the war was lost is so fresh in both their minds—who among them could trust a mage, let alone a telepathic mage? If he and she are sensible, they would be steering clear of any creature so slippery and masterful as a telepath.”

With a shrug, Melchios remarked, “your opinion of their ability far surpasses mine.”

“You have never felt their probe.”

He bowed his head. “A debatable point, but technically true. Nonetheless, Lord Unorian, there is the chance of them having telepaths. Raine I do not know, but Vulnus is quick to trust and believes wholeheartedly in the doctrine of second chances and not judging character by profession or race—even if it were a Rau-lass! If Phoenix Raine is of a similar cut, or at least a calculating risk-taker—well! Bring your brother before a telepath? Oh no, Lord Unorian. No, I think that neither her majesty nor I would propose this plan at all.”

With smooth alacrity the elf interrupted, “you mean to trade us out. You will send me instead, I being second in my family only to High Lord Parthalán concerning the manipulation of emotions, and your intent is that I could magically con my way into their midst without anyone having the personal disposition to suspect. The telepath himself would not even feel compelled to probe deeply or to divulge all that he saw—I could make him want to forget what he saw. Moreover, I am not so loyal to Lysander and would not have the second thoughts you accuse Darragh of having. Yes, I see the plan.” The elf rose. “Is that all, Arandein?”

Melchios smiled widely. “It is indeed, Lord Unorian. Be chary of Luelia if they pick her up; the woman has a unique skill for precognition, by virtue of an unhealthy paranoia. You know, I trust, that it will be your own responsibility to devise a reliable methods of communication with her majesty’s troops. But of course—if your brother could do it without alerting Diarmuid Ælfher to his activities, then it will naturally be more than easy for you.”

The wintery elf bent his head, a curtain of his mahogany hair falling over his face with the motion. “Naturally,” he echoed, and left.




((Niall))

The glimmer of sunlight dripping in refulgent pools against Niall’s eye was what roused him. For a confused moment, he wondered where he was. It was not that he’d lost consciousness or indeed, sustained any physical strain beyond that of a bitter gallop in driving rain, but the memories of a mere few hours ago were so distorted that he might as well have been. He looked around.

Diarmuid slept against his hip, curled like an infant. Niall’s brows furrowed in the elegant Ælfher fashion, which is to say he looked righteous and just even when trying to hash together drunken images. We had the horses mostly tacked when it was discovered we were leaving
 He observed Tanaí, who was tethered by ivy twined about his neck and clearly lacking saddle and bridle. Anahita and Lilith’s mounts were in a similar predicament. The problem is in recalling the rest. For when they were found out, all became a blur: it was as though every tree had become a many-fingered hand splaying out into arcane black script, the ink of which seeped into all their senses and reactions until they were wholly subjected to its machinations. And those had been many—whatever they were.

A welcoming voice rasped above Niall’s head and he remembered something more: wings all over his vision. What hadn’t been spilling ink and amorphous shadow had been pennate forms flashing and flapping every which way—indeed, the more he thought about it, the more Niall wondered how much of their party had been in Aduro during their flight. For all of Ciarán’s scorn and surety that his subjects were his thralls, it did not seem that his punishment curbed their magic. A flickering orange glow—fire, perhaps?—was somewhere in the beginning portion of his recollections, before the strangeness.

Fiacre flapped down to stand before him, beady eyes appraising. His hematite beak hung parted for a spell, head bobbing once, and then he cawed again (with discourtesy enough to hop forward and rudely peck Niall’s wrist, leaving a red score). “Ow—hie you, you silly raven,” he snapped, rising. Dia’s eyes snapped open as his heat source disappeared.

Fiacre stilt-walked over to the young elf, and grumbled deep in his feathery throat. “He says move,” Diarmuid croaked. “Gain ground for something to help Phoenix.”

Tip jar: the author of this post has received 0.00 INK in return for their work.

Alacer Phasmatis
Member for 16 years
Promethean Conversation Starter Author Conversationalist Lifegiver

Re: Freedom Forsaken

Tips: 0.00 INK Postby ShadowPhoenix on Sun Oct 30, 2011 8:09 pm

((Lilith))

Lilith slowly regained consciousness in small stages, something viewed as an oddity by at least some portion of her mind. She could feel uneven patches of sunlight across her body, which was, for some reason, on the ground. With a deep breath, reminiscent of a sigh, Lilith attempted to reconstruct the most recent events.

They had been nearly gone—aided in their haste by the map the albino had been able to construct—when what appeared to have been a chance discovery ruined their getaway. She remembered reaching for the arcane metals lining the interior of the building, feeling it melt at her touch, and a scream.

With a jolt, Lilith’s eyes flew open. Sitting up, she did a frantic headcount. Finding all members of their party present and accounted for—including the horses, which looked like they were being choked on ivy—the elf let herself sink back to the forest floor and continue in her attempts to remember their flight.

Black bands, like twisted smoke, and distorted images flickered through her mind. They had been followed by birds, birds too swift and large to have been real. At some point, the air had gained a sharp bitter scent. For a fraction of a heartbeat, Lilith could have sworn that they were back in her homeland, riding through snow that had fallen before the grass had had time to die for the winter, thick wool garments whipping around them amidst the wind of their headway. This image had vanished before it became a solid vision, replaced by a storm of wings, and a ghost-like afterimage of a doe, occasionally glimpsed between black feathers and thick haze.

Lilith let her eyes open, and stared at the pine needles above her as Niall snapped at a raven. Is this what getting drunk is like
? she wondered, briefly, attempting to crest the rising panic at her inability to clearly remember what had happened.

Sitting up for the second time, Lilith groped for her magic, intending to cast it about her to determine the location of any metals nearby. For a moment, she had a firm grasp over it, and nearly completed her task. In a wrenching, unbalancing moment, her magic slid away from her like water; tangible enough to sense, but not enough to grasp. Lilith gave one of the trees in her line of vision a hard stare as Anahita—who had obviously woken up sometime during this process—began to rouse the midgets. Reaching out again, Lilith attempted to repeat the maneuver. This time, she couldn’t even sense her magic.

Stare becoming sharper, the elf repeated this experiment with her poison magic. Nothing. At all.

Standing up, Lilith spotted a good tree and proceeded to climb it, in an attempt to get their bearings. Other than obtaining directional information, she was at a loss. As she climbed back down, she once again attempted to use her magic. It was very likely that such a lack of response was caused by a simple lack of magic, she figured. After all, she didn’t remember what had happened, and highly doubted that anyone else did either, given the nonsensical fragments she did possess. She could have simply used up whatever magic she had had left after the creation of the map and her spying session.

Upon reaching the ground, she made her way to Niall. “We will leave now, and continue moving northwest. Have your nephew stay in communication with the local fauna to get some information that will tell us where we are.”

So saying, she spun on her heel to help free the last of the horses. “I currently have no magic,” she calmly informed Niall over her shoulder as she strode away. How he would take that, she didn’t know and didn’t care to find out. It was simple fact, and not much could be done about it.

****************

Later, in the evening, Lilith dubiously eyed the sky above her. They had stopped for the night, and somewhere below and behind her was their crude camp. The sound of the waterfall below her would, ordinarily, been a relaxing sound to hear. Given their current situation, however, it simply served background noise.

Lilith took a deep breath of the crisp night air and let it out. They were certainly heading in the right direction, roughly. Beyond that, they still didn’t have a solid grasp on where they were, exactly. Settling back in the bough of the tree she had climbed, Lilith mulled over the events of the past twenty-four hours. They, singly, would have made her uneasy and, together, set her teeth on edge. First they had been received by some highly suspicious people. Then, there had been that dream that had included Ciaran—it was strange, regardless of whether it had been a mere dream or not. Finally, there had been a significant amount of time, during which no one remembered anything more solid than that there had been birds involved somehow, and after which she no longer had any magic. Things did not bode well for the future. At all.

Tip jar: the author of this post has received 0.00 INK in return for their work.

User avatar
ShadowPhoenix
Member for 16 years
Conversationalist

Previous

Post a reply

Make a Donation

$

RPG relies exclusively on user donations to support the platform.

Donors earn the "Contributor" achievement and are permanently recognized in the credits. Consider donating today!

 

Who is online

Users browsing this forum: No registered users and 1 guest