Asulda told stories to the twins that Niyut still hears in her dreams, living them as though she were there. Images of the living ancestors calling forth their minions in the night. Dire rats, wolves and bats would all respond to their summons. And while they waited for their arrival, the ancestors would drain the blood and the life force from the living. Destroying their soul and recreating them in the ancestors image. An abomination to life.
They were unaffected by cold and lightening unless it was powerful. And then only partially. Their blood would heal them and the mortal blood they drank, made it even more so. Blades would blunt against their flesh and blows would leave lesser marks. They were truly a formidable opponent and one that their mother had warned them against.
The old man smiles and pokes at the dirt with his cane. "She is wise, the Songstress... and so are you, child..." He dug the cane deep into the earth, scrawling letters that none of the group could discern from where they sat. His eyes did not leave the ground. He did not look at Niyut. "Neriah, father of warriors before the First Lands, watched as the great spirits warred with themselves. One could not defeat the other. Yet, neither would yield. For many lifetimes, they made war. Men were born and men died. So, when Neriah came, the great spirits said, 'Behold Neriah, bravest and strongest among men! How will he try to defeat us?' Neriah did not try. He simply asked... why."
The old man thrust his cane into the ground one last time and put his weight upon it. Coming to his feet, he crossed the midewigaan and placed a hand on Niyut's shoulder as he looked deep into the dark sky. "Why do you seek to destroy a living ancestor?"
Niyut long considers the elder's words. Why? Is it because I suspect that one killed our mothers and I want vengeance? I do, but vengeance is a blade without a hilt. When I stab with it, I bleed as well. . .
"Your question echoes within me, honored elder. I could say that I seek to defend the damage that they might do to the fire of our spirits. I could also say that I seek knowledge of how to defeat them. Defeat is not the same as destruction. When faced with poor choices, our elders have defeated and bound immortals that threatened our way of life whether they shared our blood or no.
These would be true answers for I do not see a way to save the Dreaming without conflict. When one knows conflict is coming, preparation is the path of wisdom. I do need to know how best to defend myself and my companions. The Soul-Bleed is a threat to the Dreaming and to our ancestors. They could not destroy her, so they bound her to feed the Dream. Now she feeds upon the dream. While it still exists, it is a threat to her. While she still exists, she is a threat to it.
Yet even now your question still echoes within me: why? To save our people and to renew the First Lands. But is destruction the only way to do this? A problem, but rarely has only one solution. What solutions does only using this one tool obscure?"
She reaches up to clasp his hand.
"Look..." he says pointing to the rows of seats behind and above Niyut. The oracle turns and looks up, out of the pit that is the midewigaan. She sees her shadow and that of the old man cast upon the stone seats of the amphitheater. "When you see a shadow before you, do you know the thing that cast it... or just the shape of its shadow." As he speaks, she feels his hand slide from her shoulder and to her back. She stiffens and sits up. The shadow grows. He steps near her and his shadow melds with hers. A giant it seems. He runs his hands into her hair and the shadow grows horns. The shadow draws a massive spear and raises it above its head. Niyut turns to the old man smiling down at her. Holding his cane above her.
"You see only the shadow and suppose you know the beast," he laughs with a sad voice. Sitting beside her, the old man looks into Niyut's eyes. "You see a Nightblood warrior and suppose you know its master. And I ask you why, not to know your purpose, but to make you question your assumptions... now... what do you know? You know what people have told you... that your mother is not among the living... that the nightblood came... that the Hülya are missing... that immortals which once slept now roam the First Lands... that the Twisted Iron protect the Elder Forest... and the Songstress implores you to protect the Forest of the Night. You know that Asiel, and your mother before her, believe the Soul Bleed has awaken from her nightmare. So, Why do you seek to destroy a living ancestor?"
He looks deep into the young oracle's eyes and stands. With unsure steps, he leans upon his cane and begins the walk across the floor of the midewigaan. "You can't."
Niyut breathes in deeply and seeks to master her temper.
"Yes, there are many things I do not know and it is wise to question one's assumptions. In this, I take your point. But, I did not ask how to destroy a living ancestor. I asked how one can be defended against." The oracle does not like having words put into her mouth, and to be lectured on assumptions by one assuming galls and piques her terrible pride.
Though I do not believe that a thing that has been done cannot be undone. I will unravel a living ancestor if I must.
She sighs and lets go of her anger. "I will ponder your words as we go into the Forest of Night and discover what there is to discover. Thank you for words of wisdom. When I think back on this what should I call you, honored elder?"
"Yes... yes... to defend oneself from the living ancestors? Make their enemy, your enemy. The best defense is to make them not want to harm you, but if you must cross one, meet them with the sun shining in its glory." The old man says as he walks away. Reaching the far side of the midewigaan, he takes his seat again and stares at the fire. "I am Mordecai, young one."
Making a gesture of respect, Niyut rises. "Thank you for your words of wisdom, Elder Mordecai."
Turning to Garidan and Malthazir, she says, "I would say goodbye to Asiel and Garidan would like to trade with her."
She leads them from the midewigaan to the fire of her family. What was once Asthane's and then Asulad's is now Asiel's.
The yurt that had once signified a semi-nomadic lifestyle is now a permanent dwelling. This dwelling is a low, rounded stone building built into a low hill. No wind, no storm could find purchase one the rounded walls or the hill. Before it lies a stone hollow with benches carved out of the stone surrounding a fire pit. Though Garidan and Malthazir do not know it, Niyut dreams about eating around this fire every night. Traditionally, it is a place for feasts. To invite others to share in the prosperity of a family that has lived in the village since it was first established.
Hides cover the entryway to the dwelling, but once they duck inside they realize that it merely covers a vestibule that ends in a wooden door set flush with the stone of the hill. Entering the dwelling, they can see that generations of druids and shamans have shaped the home from the stone of the hill, buttressing it with hardwoods brought from the Forest of Night. The center of this dwelling is a large fire pit beneath a cunningly concealed chimney. Similar to a more traditional yurt this is a space for eating and communal living. There are enough furs for between ten and fifteen people, though most have been bound and stored on the far wall. It looks like perhaps four sleeping furs have been used recently. Radiating out from the central area are several rooms closed off from the central area.
Niyut shakes her head. So many aunts, uncles, and cousins lost. Besides for myself and Truk, there are perhaps four of us left? One of those is Asiel?
What Niyut is intentionally not thinking about is for the family to continue is that she and perhaps a surviving female cousin are responsible for the family to continue. If Astahane had spoken true, ageless Asiel would be bearing no children.
"Aunt, Niyut calls out. "I have come to tell you that Truk and I are going to the Forest of Night to find what we will find. I would ask for your blessing as the family fire is now yours. Also, my companion, Garidan, would like to trade you for the work of your cunning craft."
"I wish you safety and success in your journey's, Niyut. Keep her safe, Truk'tosh," the wizened woman says. She looks to Garidan as if expecting a request.
”Always”, Truk’tosh offers his aunt in return. ”You honor us with your blessing.”
Malz follows along, on the outside seemingly intent on listening (which he is) but also lost in his own thoughts about plans for the future.
Sunlight is a weakness, I must see what outsiders are capable of helping, or find some evocation magic that may...
Raektov is showing more and more promise, perhaps his studies were too theoretical in nature. I will advance him in other schools to build a strong base...
Reconsider dragon type. Perhaps an elemental breath weapon would show more purpose in certain circumstances...
Garidan speaks with Asiel, inquiring about the shaman's ability to brew potions. Asiel smiles and nods, "I do have some that I will provide to you for the sake of my niece and nephew." She walks to a small box carved from a tree trunk. She pulls several small, boiled leather bota bags. Slipping them into a small sack, she gives them to the swashbuckler with a nod.
"Thank you, great aunt Asiel. May our fires flourish in your care."
Packing their gear onto Tacal's back, the group sets out towards the Forest of Night, guided by the constant pull of Asulad's mended staff. The pace is intense as Niyut urges the group onward. Her hopes ride high. The air is cool and dry with the stars shining brightly over head.
Following the well-worn trails of the Firebird, Truk'tosh takes the lead. The druid keeps an ever-vigilant eye for danger as does Malthazir's pseudodragon. The winged creature soars above the group hidden by its innate magic. It talks to the elf on a few occasions pointing out wildlife in the distance. Most flee well before the group approaches. Hours pass and the group grows hungry. But after a brief stop, the young oracle urges them to keep moving.
Six hours into their journey, they enter under the first trees of the forest. The blackened bark and dark brown leaves looks strangely alive and whispering. The group slows, working to gain confidence and comfort among the old trees. More than once, each of them find their minds wandering from their task and into day dreams. Another two hours pass and the bellies begin to talk of their hunger. But Niyut will have none of it. She pushes her brother forward and the rest follow. Finally, Garidan takes his hand from his rapier and into Tacal's pack. Perhaps a little provisions handed out during the journey will satisfy their hunger and the woman's wishes.
Finding some salted meats from their iron rations, he smiles and nods at his ingenuity. He'd kept their supplies ordered and the food was just where it ought to be. Turning back to the group, he lowers his head and takes a long stride intending to jog to the front and hand out the jerky. Tacal's large head looks to its right and draws the swashbuckler's attention. His eyes drift in that direction and to a large tree. It's trunk split. Grey eyes peering back at him blink once then shift back into the darkness of the hollow tree.
Though Niyut's will does not waver, her body certainly does. "We should rest soon." She nods to her brother.
”It would be wise not to march ourselves to exhaustion. The First Lands has always been dangerous and the Storm has only made things worse. Stay with Tacal and Malthazir. Garidan and I will find someplace secure to build a shelter.”
Knowing the lands near his village well, Truk’tosh looks for a location suitable for shelter against dangers common in the region.
Keeping his voice calm and level as best as he can, Garidan directs the party's attention to the tree trunk from which the eyes had been seen, his weapon held in a seemingly-casual grip that belies his readiness to use it. Since it doesn't look like anything more will come of the matter, he doesn't do anything to provoke the owner of the eyes into action, but the swashbuckler does focus a little harder on trying to spot anything else lurking off to their sides (his focus helped along by the memory of those large cats attacking them from the grass).
His sister is similarly wary, the dense growth providing a rather rare opportunity for own her peculiar senses to contribute to the party's protection as she uses them to--watch, listen, smell; Garidan isn't honestly sure what she does, and she can't explain it either--sense past the obscuring plantlife for a short distance.
Truk'tosh takes stock in their location. They are in the outskirts of the Forest of Night. Territory considered outside of Firebird lands but noth within the Nightblood clan's domain. He's visited this area on occasion in the past and recalls a shallow river to the north of the road where many travelers have camped before. As he suggests that he and Garidan find the spot, he sees a look of trepidation on the swashbuckler's face.
Garidan looks at the others, wide-eyed and alert. He returns his eyes to the tree trunk and back at them several times. Hoping they will notice. Garidan's eyes dart from side to side. Out of the darkness, blended with the trees, he sees countless eyes watching him. Focused upon his every move.
"You should not have come here..." a growling voice comes from the tree.
"I am Niyut, beloved of shadows. By blood-kinship, by right, by courage -- I have every right to be here. The Forest of Night has accepted my blood offering: as long as I have the courage, I may brave its bowers. My mother is Aslud the Dreamer, she was taken under oaths of peace and parley: I have the right of justice from those who wronged her. Our father is of the Nightblood: by kinship we claim our right to be here. Who are you to deny me my three-fold rights? Stand forth and name yourself. You who should have no fear here."
Niyut speaks proudly and boldly. Her mother had always told her that her southern kin find no favor for cowards and the timid. Though, of course, if this were a living ancestor, she would be expected to show great respect once that is acknowledge since she is claiming the bonds of kinship.
I am Malthazir, wielder of magic. My might, I suggest you don't challenge me being here. Malz smiles at some private joke as he watches the situation unfold. His dragon lands on his shoulder and makes a silent snarling face towards the sound while Torenz hovers nearby.
"The Nightblood may run in your veins, but you are not of our clan," the voice says slowly. A guttural growl underscoring its cadence. It draws a breath and steps out of the tree. Standing a head taller that Truk'tosh, the grey skinned orc is covered in thick armor made of the bark and leaves of the forest's unmistakable trees. It's long, black hair is swept back revealing its square jaw and sizable tusks. A muscular arm speckled with scars and tattoos carries a long polearm. "I am Verthag... and you have no claims here."
His arms flex as he moves his gaze to Truk'tosh and then back at Niyut. "I know of you, Niyut... and you, Truk'tosh, ill-fated twins of Asulad, the deceiver. Your clan has taken blood from these lands... blood from our clan. You forfeit all claims here. You will answer for the compact that she betrayed." The orc points his weapon at the others. "They come from over the mountain, unleashing death upon us. They will leave the First Lands now or their drained flesh will be cast into the stars at the Land's End."
A raunchy chorus of calls echoes from the darkness of the forest. "A'RUH! A'RUH! A'RUH!"
"Verthag, your lips drip with foolishness. Blood is blood. Are the Nightblood so poor that you must ignore our kinship? If that is so, we can share our food with you. Moreover, children belong to the mother. If the our father were interested, he could have visited her fire. Do not speak ill of her without proof or my brother will teach you wisdom. Better he than I, for I am not as gentle as he."
Niyut does not back down before the powerful orc that dwarfs her brother's large frame. Undaunted by his obvious strength, she does not blink.
"Do not speak to me of proof," Verthag growls. "I saw the carnage the Deceiver wrought. My kin slain by the Firebird! Their blood taken so that the Gáj'Akavor may not drink! Yazgah, our Wiavch, slaughtered! Her flesh taken so she can not be blessed in reverie!" He shakes his head in disbeleif, reliving a memory. "I buried my brothers but had nothing of Yazgah to anoint. Your kin desecrate her memory!"
The orc begins to drool as the fire in his eyes burns with hatred. He points at Niyut, "Prostrate yourself and I will show you mercy in death..."
"A'RUH! A'RUH! A'RUH!" the voices grow, the stench of their breath overwhelming.
Malz arcs a brow at the confrontation. He knows Niyut can handle herself, but his unique persuasive charm is often helpful in such situations. Malz communicates through his psueodragon, telepathically sending a message to her.
Niyut holds up a hand. "Hold, Verthag! For we have been told similar tales by my kin among the Firebird. That our mother was called by a Nightblood she trusted. Hülya found our kin slain, the body of my mother stolen. It seems to me that there are two possibilities. Either there are traitors among the Firebird or Nightblood, seeking to weaken the clans in the long night. Or, some third party with malice towards both our peoples seeks to draw us into conflict."
"I would rather stake the guilty in the Forest of Night. Drain their blood, gather their bones for my magic, than I would fight with you now."
"I do not merely speculate! The Hülya gathered my mother's broken staff. We repaired it, and with my craft it now seeks those who stole its power. The people who attacked my mother and claimed her magic likely did the same with your brothers and Yazgah. You can come with us and perhaps together we can claim justice for both these crimes."
The spirit guide does not give voice to the implied threat.
Truk’tosh clutches his weapon tightly but keeps it held low. He matches the bigger orc’s gaze without flinching. Like his twin, he recognized that the Nightblood honored strength above all else.
”It is a foolish hunter that exhausts himself to feed the scavengers in his wake”, he adds to Niyut’s appeal in a low tone.
Truk’tosh clutches his weapon tightly but keeps it held low. He matches the bigger orc’s gaze without flinching. Like his twin, he recognized that the Nightblood honored strength above all else.
”It is a foolish hunter that exhausts himself to feed the scavengers in his wake”, he adds to Niyut’s appeal in a low tone.
"Come now, we can always turn to blood if need be. You were given conflicting stories, let us come to the truth of the matter. Do not act in ignorance."
"Uhmm...it seems there's a lot of anger here. Should make sure it's directed at the right place, shouldn't we?"
The orc studies Niyut and stares at the staff in her hands. The wheels of his mind work out the possibilities of truth and deceit, but he lacks the insight of those that hear the Ether. "Those words are easy to speak, but hard to prove. If your lips are not lying, the Gáj'Akavor will know. You will come with me to meet them. If what you say is true, you will live. If not, you will die." He grunts twice and the leaves in the forest rustle. Two orcs come step out of the darkness of the forest. Verthag nods and they depart in a rush.
Niyut thinks of three incantations that would leave Verthag mewling in the undergrowth. No. What unites all speaking peoples is stronger than what divides them. I will not be as foolish as the horse king or the gnoll warlord.
She make a gesture implying that they will see what they see. "I do not fear to repeat my words before any. If some third party intends to rile conflict between us, I will not give it the satisfaction. But, I will discover the lies and secrets that led both of our paths here. When I do find those responsible, I will take from them more than what they stole from my mother."
In light of the tension and increasing shift towards bloody violence, the swashbuckler is surprisingly calm as he speaks. "Speaking costs nothing, you know, and might gain you quite a bit. But once your weapons come into play, you lose even if we die. You won't find us easy to kill, and the bodies we pile up before we fall will only bring further calamity and grief to your people. Are you absolutely certain that you wouldn't like to try talking things over first?"
Verthag points down the road, "Follow me." The pace is quick and unyielding. The orc doesn't break stride and never looks back over his shoulder at the group. He calls out periodically with a shout in orcish which is soon answered by a similar call from different directions each time. The forest grows thick and dense with a stillness that becomes unnerving. Verthag continues his march without regard to anyone.
After several hours, a call comes from the forest, echoing through the trees. Verthag stops and turns, observing each of the group's pace. "We rest," he says. Stepping off the road, he leads the group a short distance into the woods to a small clearing. The orc slings his pack to the ground and lies down, pulling a dried piece of meat from a side pouch. Taking a few bites, he lays his head down and closes his eyes.
Niyut looks at Verthag and rolls her eyes at his performative stoicism. "We too should seize what rest we can. No doubt his clan members are watching us, but that is no reason not to keep our regular watches."
Niyut usually studies or works magic before she sleeps, but she can barely keep her eyes open after working such powerful magic and then traveling for hours. It is only a few minutes after she settles into her sleeping furs that she drifts off to sleep.
In light of the hostility being shown by their "hosts," Garidan is in no way minded to be as generous with the party's assets as he was when they were among the Firebird. Nor is he in any rush to reveal precisely what those assets are either. And so it is, with whispered apologies, that his companions are offered meals from their stock of rations instead of the considerably better offerings that they've been enjoying from his bespelled armor. Indeed, the only magic he makes use of to the party's benefit is the usual application of his sister's oh-so-helpful spell that keeps them all clean; the subtle effect should go unnoticed by the Nightblood around them, and Garidan sees no reason to suffer the discomfort of being dirty just to spite them.
Niyut's suggestion that they keep their own watch rotation is met with a nod from the swashbuckler. "More eyes and ears paying attention is never a bad idea," he says quietly. "It's just annoying that we have to watch out for our 'hosts' as much as any other prospective threat," he finishes with a grimace. "It also makes it difficult to actually discuss plans, or this situation, since we don't know what ears besides ours may be listening."
During his own shift on watch, Garidan spends a portion of the time ensuring that his current alchemical project is still viable and on its way to completion, with a few adjustments here and there as needed to ensure that both goals are met for another day. His knowledge on the subject, gained as it was from an outside source instead of the more traditional manner, leaves him alternately amused and faintly horrified by how adept he is at working under rough conditions. Any proper alchemist would take one good look at his travel-battered, makeshift apparatus and promptly declare it fit only for the garbage heap. Actually making something with it would the last thought on their mind.
Craft Progress: Wild-Blood
DC 15 (normal, 2 gp/day progress); 100 gp
Checks Made: 4 (2 doubled, 2 tripled); Progress Made (in gp): 20/100.