"Denerele..." He nods. "I know of whom you speak. She was here several weeks ago. Meeting with some old acquaintances, then eventually on her way to the Winter Meet. I will ask if anyone knows where she was traveling next, if you would like me to do so."
Yuma listens to more of your tale and your woes as you descend into the monastery of the Root. The limestone and granite tunnels feel smooth to the touch - either naturally made or oread-carved. Master Yuma always keeps his right hand upon the wall - and now that you look closer, the siblings notice the intricate carvings that cover these tunnels. The lines resemble artistic roots, curving this way and that in patterns both complex and simple. Master Yuma seems to orient himself based on these carvings, switching from one pattern to another, tracing it with sensitive fingers as he guides you.
Speaking quietly in the echoing space, Yuma says, "Do you all wish to rest at the singers' this night? I do now know how much time will be required to restore Wamblee's shoulder. Tell me more of this Erret creature. How did you first come across him, Samoon?"
Samen nods as he opens his Sight . "I suppose you're right. I felt it more than I knew it, which is not how I'm accustomed to working."
He scans the banks of the river, tracing the threads below the surface, feeling how it flows more fickle than earth and presses down more stubbornly than air. He traces the bottom of his staff in the shallows.
"Do you know, I've never met an Undine before in person? I've seen them occasionally pass through, of course, but I've never spoken with one. This river is as alien to me as you are. Before your time in the scroll, did you ever meet up with other kinds of elementals, or did you stay in your niche?"
Abbygailiwy does not respond, perhaps bored by the turn of conversation. The spirit's mind seems to spread out here, becoming something broader and more simple. The spirit-wind dances upon the water, creating a hundred little whorls in the water.
The only thing your Sight reveals is how showy and flagrant your own aura is - or more accurately, the aura of your staff. The elemental's magic shifts colors with its moods - currently, it is a light, misty green.
Soon after the entrance, you notice small embellishments on the basic root carvings. Paint made from berries are painted as lilacs and briar roses. Small, common gems, like topaz and sapphire, line the ceiling in almost mathematical arches and loops. At regular intervals, there are side alcoves of dirt and grass for resting. You see several of these occupied by monks of all ages - a few young boys, an old ele, and a handful of young adult els. All oread.
Down you go, walking past a mural the length of a brutbreve field here, and a cluster of children's handprints, in purples and oranges, over there. Three of Yuma's fingers follow three parallel grooves in the wall. Only his index finger takes the next sharp right turn - he follows it. There is no hesitation - the fingers trace a path on their own, without the old monk seeming to devote any attention to it.
"Master, I would speak with you in private, where no unfriendly ears are likely to have sneaked in. As Samoon has noted, we are in danger - hunted no less - and I would inform you of the details."
It is plain to Wamblee's siblings that he trusts Master Yuma to a great degree, and that he is eager to be straightforward.
"Of course, Wamblee. This way..." He leads you off the more populated paths, to a tunnel with only one lonely root-path twisting along the walls. You enter a room that is far away from any others.
Master Yuma takes his simple stool from his back, unfolds it, and sits. "This is a safe, quiet place. What would you have me hear?"
"I met him on the road home, from Light. He seemed friendly at first, just asking questions. We spoke, and, and he was on his way, but I later noticed that he had...spies. Or minions. It was hard to tell what they were. Erret was the only one that seemed like...an el. The others...I'm not sure. They were just--out of the corner of the eye, sort of."
Samoon pauses.
"The next time, he came at me attempting to ambush me--to kill me or abduct me, I'm not sure. I had the drop on him, and managed to slay him first. I made sure to burn his body and drop a tree on him and burned that too..." Samoon looks at his hands; he doesn't like to talk about his deadly alchemical abilities too much. "...clearly, he has more than one life."
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Once in a place vouched for by Master Yuma, Wamblee relaxes slightly, then speaks.
He speaks of the funeral, and of the attack by Erret.
He speaks of the inheritance, items left by a former priest of Ceder Tribe: their father.
He speaks of these items awakening powers within the four siblings, and notes from Father about fighting styles of Root. While he himself becomes sturdier and sturdier, with a deep connection to stone.
He speaks of the monsters and the hired ifrits. And the corrupted Seed, a dragon.
He speaks of the horrors of Rokerenge, up until the end.
Yuma waits for Wamblee's tale to be told in full. When the last words have rumbled from the younger monk, Yuma nods. "It is much to take in. I have no answers for you, but I assure you I will meditate upon your troubles tonight."
Master Yuma travels the circuit of the small room, coming to Wamblee's side. Touching his good shoulder, but still being gentle, the older monk says, "I will give you what comfort is mine to give, imbewu. Shall we go to the singers now? It would ease my heart to see your pain mended."
Feeling drained, yet relieved, by his speech, Wamblee nods.
"Of course, Master Yuma. I would have relief - and the full use of my arm."
With the elemental going silent, Samen does as well. He sits down against a tree, watching the flow of the river. He can almost forget everything that's happened.
You all follow Master Yuma back to the wider, busier tunnels. More root carvings and splashes of color decorate these halls. Yuma's hands dance up and down the carvings, consulting it as a map. Younger monks, hauling bags of root vegetables and granite, bow and make way for the Master as he walks. The wizened oread greets many of them, recognizing them from their voice or by a slight touch upon arm or hand.
Wamblee sees several students he knows, but aside from a perfunctory greeting, none stop to talk. You feel oddly like an outsider in the very place that has been your home for so long. Everyone is kind enough to Samoon and Marianne, but their eyes hold questions that their mouths are too polite to ask.
You pass several utilitarian side passages - here a cistern, here a vegetable patch, and there a slow excavation of edible rocks and living space. You also see children lending their hands to repainting older works of art. They are slow and deliberate, more like small adults than the wild orphans of Forge. And, true to the oral tradition of the Root, everywhere there are elens, stories are being told - mythologies, allegories, and moral fables. The glad voices echo out of passages as you walk.
The passages begin to head steadily downward. The root symbols become complex, weaving in and out of each other, threading through gems and twisting back upon themselves. The talking has stopped - the few elens you see are somber and quiet.
Then you hear it.
mmmmmmmmmnnnnnnnnnnnmmmmmmm...
Just the faintest sound at first, like the deep rumble of thunder on the horizon. After a few minutes, you recognize it as an impossibly deep elen voice.
mmmmmmmmnnnnnnnnooooooooooommmmm....
As you approach the source of the sound, you hear more voices joining the first, creating simple harmonies, then complex chords that cycle between discordance then resolve back to harmony. Even though the singers are all out of sight, the music already fills your chest like a living thing.
nnnnnnnmmmmmmmmmmmmm....
The lone tunnel opens into deep amphitheater. Thick green and blue moss covers the ceiling and walls, seeming to muffle all sound but the song. At the bottom, you can see several oread figures sitting cross-legged around a prone elen, perhaps an old ele.
After a few minutes, the song intensifies, then fades. The old ele stands, bows to the singers, and shuffles up the stairs opposite to you.
Master Yuma nods, then motions for Wamblee to go down the stairs himself.
Wamblee does as Yuma motions, and strides forward, trying to find ease of body - and of mind.
To Samoon, Yuma murmurs, "This may take a while. Would you stay, or may I take you to a chamber to rest for the night?"
Samoon begins to slide his eyes toward wherever a bedchamber might be in this series of tunnels, then catches himself. "I would stay," he says. "I could use...this makes me feel like I have a...yes, I would stay. Um, thank you."
Samoon's eyes look moist.
Samoon and Marianne stay in the chamber. Master Yuma bows goodnight to them and to Wamblee.
Wamblee descends into the steep amphitheater. The singers do not move as you approach. You cannot see their faces - they all wear gray cloaks and robes that blend into the rocky ground. They are no longer singing a melody - instead, they are all holding steady on a minor chord; a waiting chord, seeking resolution. The volume increases slowly the closer you get, and a sympathetic resonance bounces off the stone walls.
Time slows as the minor chord intensifies. It is a syrup-slow underwater feeling. To your distorted senses, it seems to take long, stretched-out minutes to reach the center of the stage. Finally, you stand in just the right place. A joyous major triad rings out and banishes all echoes of the minor's melancholy.
Wamblee lies down, a look of utter serenity on his face. Samoon and Marianne soon fall asleep. Some deep part of you knows that, at least for tonight, this is a safe place to rest. Your bodies and minds relax.
Your night is dark, restful, and dreamless. Right before you wake, you hear a tiny whisper:
do not trust the other masters
Samen, your surprise is two-fold: one, that you let your guard down enough to fall asleep; and two, that you are not dead. You hear fish jumping in and out of the river, like scattered sarcastic applause.
You notice a skittering form out of the corner of your eye - hiding now behind a gorse bush. The movement reminds you sharply of darkspawn.
"*snort* huh?" Samen wakes with a start and gets to his feet. He tries to gather himself quickly as a thought occurs to him.
"Focal rabhaidh amháin ... Úsáidim an bata seo, d’áitreabh reatha, chun ionsaitheoirí a bhlaiseadh. Mar sin, ... le dul i bhfeidhm ar thionchar, is dóigh liom?"
There is nothing but the hint of a whispery laugh.
Samen juices up the staff , then whacks the thing.
Half of the spider-like creature is crushed. It looks like sharp black crystal on the outside, but it is filled with malodorous oil on the inside.
Somehow, the chitinous thing crawls toward you, using only three legs. The motion is disturbing. You realize it is trying to crawl up your leg...
but you kick it off. It lands five feet away with an oozy plop. It is still moving - still alive.
Samen makes a face at the critter. "Vile thing. If you weren't so hostile, I'd study you too. Perhaps you are simply another elemental, but I'll probably never know."
Regardless of any potential reservations, Samen does not hold back against it.
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As approaches, Wamblee feels the minor chord resonating within him. And with his enhanced connection to stone, he feels it especially resonating within his shoulder. With the break of the major triad, he feels something respond within his injured flesh.
And he knows the Singers' potent art is already taking effect, as he settles down. He is content to allow sleep to take him.
"do not trust the other masters"
What? Here? No!
Wamblee's eyes flick open, a look of deep concern etched upon his face.
He looks urgently for his siblings, and right now does not even notice that he has used both of his arms unthinkingly - with no harsh consequences.
Samen looks around for any sign of more darkspawn. "Hmm. That thing probably wasn't here just to ruin my nap. We should probably move closer to what stands for civilization out here." He gently squeezes his staff. "Thanks for your help."
Samoon and Marianne are still at the top of the amphitheater - they awake at near the same time as Wamblee. All three of you are refreshed from spending a night in the presence of the singers - you feel the wondrous absence of fatigue from the road and from your grief. It was a burden whose weight you did not fully realize - until it was gone.
A strangely pale oread walks into the chamber. A few of you recognize the gnarled, colorless skin of the White Oaks - a minor tribe that protects a frigidly cold region of the north that falls outside the North Tribe's boundaries.
The old el regards Wamblee from beneath bushy eyebrows that resemble snow-covered needles. His northern Forest accent rounds his r. "Mastah Yuma sends his regards. I-" he pauses to look at each of you individually with xylem-colored eyes, "am Mastah Hakkan-dala." His deep voice is not unfriendly, but neither does it brook arguments.
Samen, Abbygailiwy is just about to respond to your thanks when-
another insectoid spawn, this one possessing the claws of a mantis, jumps like a tick out of some long grass. It slashes at your shoulder, but you quickly rip it off and crush it into the ground. Mercifully, there seems to be no poison.
Two more times, the mantis-claws leap from scrub and gorse. And two more times, an angry staff grinds them into the hard ground. You are slashed once more, this time on the left bicep. It is a thin, bright line of pain.
Ignoring the wound for now, you approach the entrance to Root once more. You see...a stool, but no one is sitting on it. No one is here at all, as far as you can tell. The cold wind blows fiercely, whipped into a whistling fury by the deep canyon walls.
"Master Hakkan-dala, we are in your debt, and that of all of Root. Is there something we can do around here, to be of assistance?" Samoon rises to his feet, feeling vaguely hungry.
Hakkan-dala attempts a smile, but his cracked visage cannot help but make it a grimace. "Very generous! We can always use an extra set of hands to gathah food for the day." He holds out a reassuring hand. "It is voluntary. We would not ask it of you if you have business elsewhere." The last two words hold a hint of a question, and his eyes sweep across all of you again.
Samen sighs at the abandoned entrance. "I don't suppose you'd be willing to go down there to avoid darkspawn, would you? We can hold more of them off for a bit, but eventually we'd be overrun without assistance. Your call."
With an impression of a nose wrinkled in disgust, she reluctantly agrees to go underground.
Samen, Bertrude clears her throat. You are unsure exactly where she came from. "This is fer her, not fer you, warlock." She clucks a few words in Sylph, and a sphere of wind--visible for just one moment as it rushes in--coalesces around the glittering blue point of the light that is Abbygailiwy. Your Sight shows you it is a protective bubble of air. The elemental seems pleased, though still nervous about going underground.
The old witch tosses two poultices at your feet. Despite the fact these may save your life, the gesture still manages to be insulting. She walks away without a further word.
The words still echoing in his head, Wamblee nevertheless dips his head as a gesture of respect for Hakkan-Dala's position. He keeps his voice as neutral as he can.
"Master Hakkan-Dala. I too would gather food and can surely show Samoon where is best to gather. What delays Master Yuma, if you are aware?"
"I have not heard from him." He bows, a shallower show of respect than Wamblee's. "May your soil be good." He gives the traditional farewell to Wamblee, and ignores the rest of you. You hear his footsteps go back down the hall. The singers left sometime during the night; for now, the three of you are alone.
"Is your shoulder still bothering you Wamblee? You look like you bit into a piece of sulfur by mistake."
Samoon examines rations in his bags dubiously. "Is there...a mess hall in this place?"
"Thanks."
Samen nods politely but curtly at Bertrude. "You all right? I don't know how common random darkspawn are around here, but this seems like it's worth reporting."
"This way. Let us find something palatable.", Wamblee says, deflecting the questions for a moment.
When they are away from others, Wamblee mentions quietly.
"My shoulder feels healed, that is not the issue. Master Hakkan-Dala is a curmudgeon and a pedant, though he has enough insight to have earned his rank. But apart from that, a small voice whispered to me just as I woke there. It said do not trust the other masters. What are we to make of that? That we have enemies here?"
Marianne shakes her head, anger and a bit of panic showing in her features. "Let's just leave. Either someone is trying to volc with our heads," her curse shows you just how upset she is, "or there is some kind of threat to us. Both of those situations scream 'get out and find our brother' to me."
Samen, Bertrude simply says, "Jes' go help Mari and the rest."
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Wamblee seems to shake off his out-of-character indecision.
"Yes. Let us seek Samen. Now."
"Which other masters? Those who are not Yuma, or those who are not Hakkan-dala? Oh, 'a'a spit. Let's find Yuma."