Roots blinks at the arrow-throated mites.
Arrows seems to be a weakness. Especially if the throat is targeted.
The Druid just shrugs at the remaining mites around him.
You may want to take full advantage of that pitiful, cowardly creatures part of my speech.
Roots-Sink-Deep grins at them.
The Root leshy then pauses for a second.
Who is Phoebe?
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With the dryad distracted, one of the captured humanoids struggles through and loose of the vines. She quickly stands up straight, gasping for breath as she looks at the group and the ongoing battle.
The figure had the same kind of unnatural beauty as the earlier Fey performers - though blue skinned, and with a distict type of cyan-green hair through which light seemed to flow the way the sun's light reflected in a shallow stream of water, changing with her every move.
However, unlike the rest of the Seelie troupe, she too seemed out of place here - something about made her seem younger, more innocent, and genuinely frightened - like this wasn't just a game for her, or something far beneath her capacities. That she seemed to almost fall forward as she freed herself on part of her unreasonably impractical high-heeled boots gave the impression she'd been probably forced to wear them - which with how leg-revealing the otherwise admittedly stylish dress was, was probably a fair assumption.
Not sparing time for introductions in an active fight just yet, she pulls one of the broken vines with her to use as a makeshift whip and rushes to the group, taking cover somewhere behind the frontline of Nidinthu and Roots.
"Oh, thank the Eldest! Misstress Kilava! I feared you'd forgotten us - or worse; that she'd get bored of us soon!" She cries when she reaches relative saftety, finally sparing a moment to watch the others. "Are you here to save us? We -or I at least- are really, REALLY glad for your help! You can call me Phoebe. I was- well, that can wait for later!"
She begins to sing a pleasant moldy and the tone is enchantingly soothing - helping those near her focus just a little bit more, even in the thick of the fight.
Still singing, she then tries swinging the whip to distract one of the enemies engaged with Nindithu - or Roots if the Fighter was not currently still engaged with one.
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Roots' blue eyes follow the perfect picture of performance perpetuated positively, potentially pop-a-lious!
Well hello, Phoebe! I am Roots-Sink-Deep, Hunter for Erastil! Protector of the Community!
The proud Root leshy positively beams!
Turning his attention back to those Mites that might not want to be here, the Druid smiles at the two throwing darts.
Sticks and stones may break my bones but, lightning is really painful!
The Druid Raises his Shield and then calls upon Nature's Electric kiss to reach out for them!
Roots-Sink-Deep then returns to the new nymph.
I am a Storm druid!
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The two mitflits that Clementine was addressing look at the sprite with confusion. Perhaps... they do not speak the language? Although one of them does paw at its rather round face, brow scrunched up in a deeply contemplative manner.
Lani's magic struggles to find purchase in the mind of her mitflit target, but Halrod feels buoyed by the gnome's encouragement.
Phoebe casts off the vegetal tendrils that had been restraining her, and since Kilava is too preoccupied with gnawing on the dryad to acknowledge her, the naiad moves towards the other members of the rescue team and sends one of the mitflits sprawling.
A miniature lightning storm sparks between the two dart-throwing mitflits, and while one of them seems to shrug off the manifestation entirely, the other yelps in pain as it gets thoroughly scorched.
Shrieking in rage, the four closer gremlins converge onto the group, brandishing shortswords. The unscorched dart-throwing one rushes up to Roots-Sink-Deep, and begins chanting some truly nasty insults, while the one still smoking from the electric assault draws its shortsword and attempts to get revenge on Erastil's hunter.
Seeing himself surrounded by so many creatures who wish him harm, Roots-Sink-Deep begins to feel a sliver of uncertainty - perhaps doubt, perhaps fear, or both.
The other one manages to nick the leshy, still trailing wisps of smoke and apparently rather incensed by the magical attack against its person.
Meanwhile, the one that Phoebe tripped scrambles to its feet again to attempt a retaliation, and the stab of its shortsword catches the naiad's thigh.
The two remaining mites converge on Clementine and Nidintu-Bel, scoring deep wounds.
Not to be left out, the two creatures that resemble a cross between a mitflit and a centipede curl into tight balls and begin rolling towards the back line, maneuvering around the clusters of fighting to end up in close proximity to Halrod and Lani.
While all this is happening, the sky over the clearing in the corrupted forest darkens as a twisted, serpentine creature circles overhead. Its translucent wings and the two gnarled horns sweeping back from its head seem to hint at something draconic in nature, but the elongated body, far too many eyes and its crest of red frills make precise identification difficult. Where its shadow touches the ground it seems to move on its own, speeding over blackened grass to come up behind Kilava.
Roots-Sink-Deep Reacts quickly blocking the sword thrust with his trusty wooden shield!
Shield Block Reaction
The druid just looks at the Mite with pity.
Encouraged by Lani, Halrod remains in the rear behind his scattered scree. He continues to fire arrows methodically. His keen elven eyes scan the fight, looking for openings.
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After Roots introduces himself to the newly freed Phoebe, Nidintu addresses the bard. "A pleasure to meet you, Miss Phoebe. I am..." At that moment, one of the mites, taking advantage of the heavily armored tiefling's momentary distraction, sinks its blade deep into his leg. "If you would excuse me for a moment?" Nidintu turns his attention to the offending mite and makes a spirited attempt to turn it from a three-dimensional creature into a two-dimensional creature.
He then bellows what he (possibly erroneously) believes to be a particularly ferocious battle cry at the other mitflit menacing him.
Nidintu turns back to Phoebe and clears his throat. "Where was I? Oh, that's right..." He extends a hand to Phoebe. "My name is Nidintu."
As the dragon swoops down out of the clouds, his eyes widen in alarm as he calls to the panther still locked in combat with the dark dryad. "Mistress Kilava! I have no wish to alarm you, but based on your earlier statements, I would hazard a guess that the creature about to attack you is an Eldest, a dragon, and/or a demigod! As such, I respectfully suggest that we re-evaluate our likelihood of victory, or even escaping this conflict alive!"
Clementine lets the force of the larger fey’s sword push him to build some momentum, then cracks his whip to catch the Mitflit by the leg. Rather than pull it over, he uses his new anchor to swing himself between the legs of his attacker. A flick of his wrist releases the braided willow branch’s grip, leaving it ready to strike!
“Haha! Right in the toosh!” Clementine lets himself take a moment to crow victoriously before remembering to raise his acorn cap buckler.
"Phoebe, welcome to the scrum! Keep your eye on the ball!" Lani quips. She sustains her hex on Halrod while attempting to daze the most injured mitflit.
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"Well hello, Phoebe! I am Roots-Sink-Deep, Hunter for Erastil! Protector of the Community!"
"Great! Good to- ...Wait, what community? You mean you are a guard of the troupe?" "Then where were you when we needed you earlier!?"
Suppressing the immediate impulse, she briefly glances between the small yet energetic leshy and the monstrous beast Kivali had turned into - which was now ripping into the equally powerful dryad. She mentally tried to reconcile the latter ever needing the former to protect her from anything , but couldn't, and gave up. The First World was weird, even more than she'd ever thought, and if there was anything her short stay here had taught her, it was that logic had long since abandoned it. But his lightning, it had to be said, was promising? "Never mind! Just... keep 'protecting'! You're, um, doing great!"
After Roots introduces himself to the newly freed Phoebe, Nidintu addresses the bard. "A pleasure to meet you, Miss Phoebe. I am..."
The Naiad turns in the direction of the voice and freezes, looking up to find a massive, fiendish elf warrior with a gigantic maul towering over her in the middle of the fight - and his eyes were on her. "Well, that's it then. Goodbye world. Why oh why did I ever go down that stream!?"
She closes her eyes over a loud crash and squelching sound, figuring it to be her skull, but -very fortunately- it was another mite, and this... man was on her side?
"Where was I? Oh, that's right..." He extends a hand to Phoebe. "My name is Nidintu."
"Okay, so *maybe* there's a chance...?" She thinks, hesitantly smiling and shaking his hand - when right behind and above him formed the visage of a horrific dragon, straight out of a nightmare, whose very shadow seemed alive and stretched towards them even now.
"...Of course. Why not? I am so, *so* dead."
She points to it anyway. "D-d-d-drago-OW!"
Getting stabbed in the leg herself just then, she grimaces and glares at the offending mite. "Look, nice to meet you, Nidintu. I promise I'll give you a more eloquent response when I'm finished getting stabbed!"
She attempts to trip the might, then heals the warrior next to her as she resumes her song...
"Phoebe, welcome to the scrum! Keep your eye on the ball!"
"'The ball'? You mean we have a plan? Because with that thing coming for us, running sounds like a really smart thing to do right now!"
Roots-Sink-Deep manages to deflect the mites' blows as Halrod's arrow finishes off the scorched mitflit. Nidintu-Bel's powerful blow practically flattens another gremlin, but his attempt to intimidate them leaves the mites scratching their heads and conferring in hushed tones among themselves. The elf can hear some of his previous words, atrociously mispronounced.
"... viknid? *mutter* ...purrshal? *mutter*"
Clementine's whip strikes another mite in a rather delicate portion of its anatomy, and the spite's efforts are rewarded with a scream of agony as the gremlin looks about to keel over, eyes squeezed shut.
Lani's spell does the job, and the whipped mite slumps to the ground, unconscious, as the dazing magic gives it a terrible headache on top of the... other issues. Phoebe's improvised vine whip wraps around the ankle of one of the mites and drags it off its feet.
Roots-Sink-Deep smiles at the two remaining mites.
Who wants to be elsewhere? Raise your hand!
The Druid then calls upon Nature's Electric kiss once again!
Hrs then Raises his shield!
Erastil's fury scorches another of the mitflits, while the other begins to struggle to its feet only to be flattened by a powerful blow from Nidintu-Bel. With the odds firmly against it, the one remaining mite beats a hasty retreat. The two centipede-like creatures unroll from their balled-up forms, look around in confusion, roll up again and follow the fleeing gremlin.
On the other side of the clearing, the dragon has alighted and is rearing up behind Kilava, whose claws and fangs have torn deep rents into the dryad's body. A dark, viscous sap is oozing from the wounds, and more of the thorny vines fall away as her concentration falters.
Now that the draconic creature is a little closer, it is marginally less terrifying, as it appears to not be a fully grown dragon - it is certainly smaller than Kilava's panther form, although it tries to hide that by keeping its wings unfurled and spread. Its shadow lengthens, sharpens and lashes out, scoring a deep, bleeding cut.
“We’re right behind you - don’t give up! All for one, and one for all!” Clementine cheers, but also keeps his acorn cap raised just in case the dragon or dryad turn their attention his way.
Lani studies the draconic creature from afar, trying to remember what it might be.
Panting from injury and adrenaline both, Phoebe quickly looks around for an exit, only to decide that without Kilava, they'd probably not make it back to the others - and home. But what to do? Clearly these foes were beyond everyone except their 'guide'.
An idea strikes her, and she looks at Halrod. "You mean to say the others are coming too!? Oh, thank the endless spring!" She feigns, then turns back to Kilava and calls to her melee in Sylvan!
Hopefully this dryad and the weird dragon would not risk hanging around for their non-existant backup, with how just Kilava was appearantly already giving them a lot of trouble...
Lani can discern that it is a younger dragon, but exactly which kind and what characteristics it might possess is knowledge that eludes her.
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Roots-Sink-Deep looks down (barely) at the defeat Mites. The Druid's blue eyes then turn to see Kilava still dancing with the sweet-looking fiery dryad, the colorful dragon still hanging about and nods.
Not done yet!
Raising his Shield, the Hunter for Erastil Strides 40' straight at the combatants!
Lani clucks her tongue as Roots runs off. ”There’s a saying where I come from. ‘Do not meddle in the affairs of dragons, for you are crunchy and taste good with ketchup.’"
Halrod turns his aim on the dragon.
"You trouble Kilava of the Summer Court, dragon. If you would live, withdraw now!"
As the dragon engages Kilava, Nidintu notices that the dryad's attention to its prisoners seems to be wavering, a hypothesis supported by Phoebe's escape from the entangling vines. Taking advantage of the dryad's distraction, he begins attempting to free the trapped jaguar.
"Mister Hanith! Miss Kilava seems to be facing a dragon unaided!" He pauses as he looks over the scene unfolding before him. "A surprisingly small dragon. That may also be a demigod. And an Eldest, whatever that is." His eye is drawn by a diminutive druidic figure advancing on the dragon with shield raised. "Roots, I appreciate your enthusiasm, but are you sure this is wise?" He quickly attempts to finish his task, pulling the vines away from the massive jaguar, but is forced by Roots' charge to refocus his efforts (possibly before freeing Hanith), picking up his maul and rushing after his young ally, intent on keeping the overly brave leshy from death.
Between the dryad's distraction and Nidintu-Bel's efforts, most of the vines constraining the jaguar form of Hadith fall away - and he does the rest, straining until he is at last free. This close, Nidintu-Bel notices a certain feral quality to Kilava's sibling, and retreats quickly before Hadith could perhaps turn his attention to him.
He need not have worried. As soon as he is freed, Hadith springs towards the dryad, powerful jaws clamping down and rending. Between him and his sister, the thorny fey is soon lying lifeless on the ground.
Meanwhile, Roots-Sink-Deep begins charging and one of Halrod's arrows embeds itself in a soft spot at the joining of a clawed leg to the rest of the dragon's body, and the creature begins to turn its many-eyed head towards the party. But before they can find out whether or not Lani's saying is true, the creature seems to realize that it is now thoroughly outnumbered and tries to take flight. Not to let her prey escape so easily, Kilava leaps upwards, a tremendous vertical jump, twisting in the air as she reaches, reaches, her claws rending the end of a wing before she falls back to the ground. Both great cats track the dragon with their intent gaze as it rapidly retreats over the treetops, their tails lashing from side to side in unison.
Once it becomes clear that Lie'en-Mo is not returning for a rematch, Kilava turns her head to lick at the wounds on her hindquarters, then shakes herself off, as if trying to fling away water from her fur. Somehow, at the end of that movement, her more humanoid form stands where the great panther was, and after briefly glancing at her brother, she strides towards the group.
"You are still alive! Well done!"
She surveys the immediate area, her gaze taking in the fallen mites. "Good. They are weak still, to ally with such vermin." She turns her head to look at Hadith, who is meticulously cleaning his fur, turned away from her. "Although this was a bold move."
Halrod notices Kilava's brittle posture but is much too gentlemanly to comment. He merely notes it for later.
Roots watches the sibling felines further feast furiously (and a bit fearsomely) on the cool-looking fiery dryad. The Root leshy then begins to focus on the dreamy dragon when Halrod's arrow sends it retreating and the felines finish its decision-making process.
That was so cool! Can we go again!?
The small leshy then smiles at Hadith.
You were so brave! Both of you! I remember once when I was younger (like 4 weeks ago) and I went vine to clawed toes with a vicious (and chatty) black squirrel! That went to the wire!
The small leshy seems serious.
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Kilava smiles at Roots-Sink-Deep. "Thank you, little one, but that was no challenge. Black squirrels, though, those are very vicious. Well done." Behind her, Hanith snorts and continues to lick his fur.
The air in the clearing seems lighter, somehow, and while the twisted vegetation remains, the light is gentler. Kilava nods to Phoebe in recognition. "I'm glad you are safe, otherwise Cerise wouldn't let me hear the end of it." She sniffs, looks at the rest. "I smell blood. Some of you got hurt?"
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Nidintu is the first to reply to the shapeshifting fey, inclining his head in thanks to Phoebe.
"I have sustained minor injuries, but they are nowhere near as grievous as they would have been without Miss Phoebe's healing magic. However, I believe that she could use some healing herself - her wounds from the mites looked rather severe, though regrettably, I do not have the expertise to aid her with any degree of competence."
He begins to move around the clearing, attempting to free the other members of the theater troupe, but his focus is primarily on the forest floor, as if searching for something.
"Quite frankly, this Li'en Mo worries me more. The tales of dragons portray them as powerful creatures, able to blot out the sun itself simply by stretching their wings and more than capable of devouring all but the strongest heroes. In seeming contravention of these tales, the specimen we encountered was more horse-sized than house-sized, and it fled in the face of a druid whose primary combat experience has been against small woodland creatures..." He looks up from his task to focus on Roots, one eyebrow raised. "...as well as some particularly insolent inanimate objects. As such, I hypothesize that either all tales of dragons have been primarily comprised of egregious exaggeration and outright fabrication - a result I find unlikely, to say the least - or it wanted us to think it had fled."
The warrior turns his gaze to Kilava. "You yourself saw this dragon's power, Miss Kilava, how its shadow struck at you without the direct action of the creature itself. If the shadow can strike without the agency of the dragon, what is to say the dragon cannot appear to flee while leaving the shadow behind?" He shrugs. "Again, my expertise in this area is somewhat limited, and that may not be how these sorts of things work at all, but given my current knowledge base, this is my primary concern."
Clementine shrugs as he could his whip. “I mean, dragons are babies once upon a time too. Just give it some time to grow up.”
""I have sustained minor injuries, but they are nowhere near as grievous as they would have been without Miss Phoebe's healing magic. However, I believe that she could use some healing herself - her wounds from the mites looked rather severe, though regrettably, I do not have the expertise to aid her with any degree of competence."
"That... would be greatly appreciated. And no problem." She gives the Fighter a pained smile as she leans against a tree, breathing heavily and wincing as her hands clutched the fairly deep leg wound. In truth, she could probably have healed it herself just then with her one remaining spell for the day, but if Kilava was offering - well, these Troupe people as unpredictable as acara cichlids on the run from bass during mating season ! Who knew when the next time came that she'd have to heal someone and they just weren't there - AGAIN - because they didn't feel like paying attention?
"...as well as some particularly insolent inanimate objects. As such, I hypothesize that either all tales of dragons have been primarily comprised of egregious exaggeration and outright fabrication - a result I find unlikely, to say the least - or it wanted us to think it had fled."
She blinks as Clementine translates for the group - perhaps the near-death experience just made it difficult to focus, but she found that hard to follow. "Is he always so verbose? Odd to find that in someone with the appearance of a brute. Wouldn't 'It wasn't as big as I'd thought' been much more efficient use of vocabulary? ...Not that I'm going to invite a discussion with Professor Maul on his favorite topic of 'Smashing Face and how to do it'."
"Um, Mister Hadith? Did you get what we needed from here?" She instead calls to Kilava's brother as he... washed himself? She *still* didn't know why exactly they had to come here, or why it was apparently neccessary for all of them to almost die, and hey - a girl could hope? "You know, so we could perhaps... get back to the others?"
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Kilava inclines her head to Clementine. "Your friend has the right of it. That was just a cub. But even fully grown, it doesn't have the power to do what you fear." Indeed, Nidintu-Bel is unable to find any shadows that look like they don't belong there, no shadowy draconic form lurking amongst the grasses, moss and fallen leaves.
Behind her, Hanith deigns to finally semble into his humanoid form. He has the same brown skin and blue-black hair as his sister, but where Kilava's features are angular and almost overly pronounced, Hanith's are soft and delicate. He wears a floral patterned silk robe, sniffing lightly at Phoebe's question as he finishes tying the sash around his waist.
"I was merely enjoying a stroll through the forest. We can return now."
He gives the naiad a furtive glance, his gaze quickly wandering elsewhere. "You didn't need to come after me." Reproachfully, to his sister. "I don't understand why all this fuss. I was fine."
It is now Kilava's turn to snort as she surveys the clearing one last time. "Well, I have no healing arts, but someone in Cerise's group should be able to help you. Let's g- Wait. Was there not another one with you? Small, fiery hair?"
Indeed, Farfadet is nowhere to be seen. Perhaps he has wandered off, perhaps he was taken by the Unseelie fey, or perhaps something else befell him. After a few minutes of searching and calling make it clear that he is not nearby, Kilava sighs.
"I will return later and look for him. For now, let us go back."
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"I've got a little bit of healing magic for all of you," Lani declares. She casts a spell, infusing all around with warm, golden light.
She glances around when she realizes Farfadet has gone. "Drat! I was going to ask him some very pointed questions... Ah, well, another laugh at my expense, it seems!"
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The small Root leshy positively beams with pride at Kilava's praise and confirmations.
Roots-Sink-Deep then smiles at Hanith.
It was good that Erastil has charged me with protecting His realms! I am honored to be your bodyguard too! I like your robes! Flowers are cool!
The Druid smiles. He seems as if he is experiencing the bestest of events!
Feeling the healing energy bursting from Lani, Roots giggles.
That tickles! Awesome-sauce!
"I was merely enjoying a stroll through the forest. We can return now." He gives the naiad a furtive glance, his gaze quickly wandering elsewhere. "You didn't need to come after me."
The Naiad tilts her head slightly, her cyan hair falling over her shoulder at the front. "Wait, what? But the others said- the others... Hm. Were we pranked then, the two of us? But... why? Was there some reason to get us here alone? Well... I'll ask later. For now, he sounds hurt, more in pride than anything."
"I'm sure you would have gotten us out in time," She says, smiling as gently as she could at hanith while keeping pressure on the wound. "Besides, it was a nice stroll for a break. Springs know I needed that after rewriting the script like five times in a single day..." There is a slightly pained chuckle following that admission.
Fortunately, before having to ask anyone to support her back, Lani then takes care of her injuries - and everyoen else's - by her seemingly much more powerfull healing magic. Phoebe then reaches beneath her dress, pulling on something and producing a algae-like vine to help cleaning the blood. "Thank you, Miss...?" She asks the gnome, then glancing at Halrod as the other one yet to introduce themself. "My thanks to all of you as well. I am Phoebe, Phoebe Selene, a Naiad from the River Glades of the Thousand Voices. I... got here, I think a day ago? It is hard to tell with how pliable the surroundings are. Are you, um, 'invited guests' then as well? It appears my role to be here is that of playwright."
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The worry subsides from Nidintu's features as Clementine and Kilava speak. "Strangely enough, I find that thought relieving to some extent. My knowledge of dragonkind was primarily gleaned through old stories and hearsay, and as such, it comforts me to know that someone here knows more about this topic than I do. Needless to say, I do not relish the thought of challenging a fully mature dragon, however."
Nidintu seems unusually unconcerned as the realization of Farfadet's disappearance dawns. "I cannot honestly say he won't be missed, but I'm confident Farfadet is quite capable of handling whatever surprises fate has in store for him. Shortly after I first became acquainted with him, he disappeared for ten years, only to show up half a month ago with tales of adventure and derring-do. Whether half a week or half a millenium from now, he's likely to reappear eventually, bearing with him some marvelous story to tell us. Incidentally, thank you for the healing magic, Miss Lani."
He then turns to respond to Phoebe. "I believe the rest of us were all brought here to be used as references for the play. I myself was encamped approximately half a day's travel to the northeast of Restov when I awoke to find myself here, though I cannot speak for the rest. I was assigned the part of the prince's bodyguard, while Mister Halrod here was filling in for Prince Clanar. Farfadet was playing the court jester Baldric when he was here, but it would seem that with his untimely disappearance, he is now nobody's fool."
"You didn't need to come after me." Reproachfully, to his sister. "I don't understand why all this fuss. I was fine."
Nidintu looks at Hanith skeptically. "With respect, Mister Hanith, I believe you may have suffered grievous bodily harm without your sister's intervention." He bends down to examine the body of the dryad. "Speaking of our erstwhile foe, are you aware of any powerful Unseelie with both the desire to do you harm and the means with which to do it? While your combat with our verdant enemy seemed quite intense, the creatures we faced - mitflits, if I remember correctly?" He looks to Roots to confirm his recollection. "...were fairly weak and easily confused. My Prime Material logic may be flawed when dealing with this strange world, but it seems to me that a being powerful enough to seriously inconvenience combatants of your caliber would entrust its safety to more than a band of confused gremlins and a draconic hatchling. Rather, I find it more believable that the foe you vanquished was an agent of a more powerful force - much as you are for your patron, Miss Kilava - and that this unknown force's reason for disliking you (or your patron, as the case may be) is not in fact mitigated by your defeat of its representatives."
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"I'm sure you would have gotten us out in time," She says, smiling as gently as she could at hanith while keeping pressure on the wound. "Besides, it was a nice stroll for a break. Springs know I needed that after rewriting the script like five times in a single day..." There is a slightly pained chuckle following that admission.
A rueful half-smile is Hanith's response, and the fey seems to relax slightly. He opens his mouth to respond...
"...while Mister Halrod here was filling in for Prince Clanar."
Hanith snaps his mouth shut and gives Halrod a head-to-toe look, the way one would size up a rival, but before he can speak Nidintu-Bel publicly and bluntly calls his bluff from earlier. As he begins to round on the tiefling, Kilava interjects.
"Oh, I don't think they meant to harm him. Not in the way you think." While she might otherwise have relished this opportunity to poke fun at her brother, the fey seems rather serious now. "Their way is to corrupt, to subvert, to undermine. They would have captured Hanith," she turns away, busying herself with rearranging the panther pelt over her shoulders, "and then he would have reappeared centuries later, but now working for them."
Hanith swallows at that, and looks away as well. There is a shared pain there, but neither seem willing to delve deeper into the details.
"Anyway, yes, there are powerful Unseelie against us, and I'm afraid that we are past the stage of dislike, or of mitigating such." Kilava smiles thinly, a predatory gleam in her yellow eyes. The body that Nidintu-Bel is investigating has already started turning into mulch, poisonous-looking mushrooms sprouting from the rotted wood. "Cerise's little play is not the real reason you are here, although she was of course more than happy to take advantage of the opportunity. But... my lady will explain better than I can." She tilts her head towards the path that had brought them all to the clearing.
Phoebe winces slightly over Nindithu's challenge to Hanith, but is unsure of what to do; technically the... Tiefling? Elf? Both? was right, though it felt a bit harsh to blame him for being overpowered. Both the first world and their own were dangerous ones, and a far stronger enemy could technically attack you at any time. But did that mean you should always act in such a way that they would never catch you alone, never doing anything by yourself? Even if you did, there was no guarantee you'd be able to fight off this attacker together, and constantly worrying about one seemed to impact your life much more than it was worth.
She instead kneels down to pat the Leshy, smiling at his enthousiasm and about to engage in conversation with him when Kilava informs them they'd be leaving, and for some unknown task to boot.
"I wonder what they want us for if not the play. Clearly we are beneath most figures here in terms of power and skill..."
"Mistress Kilava? Does that mean your Lady isn't Cerese?" She asks as she follows the catlike fey.
Nidintu falls silent as Kilava speaks of the Unseelie's corruption of previously kind fey. These twisted fey destroy all they touch, turning the most just of their foes into villains like themselves. Perhaps this dark dryad was once a pure and righteous hero before being transformed into a pawn of the Unseelie? For that matter, what have the eldritch grimoires Vanrith studied done to his soul? Will I eventually find that my brother has become something as cruel as or worse than the enemy Miss Kilava and Mister Hanith defeated?
After a pause, he speaks to Kilava's brother, his voice conciliatory. "My sincerest apologies for any offense I may have caused, Mister Hanith - I fear I may have been unnecessarily blunt. This topic is closer to my heart than most, as I often fear that similar malign influences plague my brother in his studies of the occult. However, that does not excuse any impoliteness on my part, and as such I apologize for my hasty choice of words. My martial skills are far inferior to your own and those of your sister, but I am willing to help your liege in whatever way I can."
He sets off down the indicated path, following Kilava's lead.
Still smil8ng the small Root leshy gives a vine-like thumbs up to Nidintu's recollections of mites.
Listening to Kilava's explanation of the Unseelie's tactics of brainwashing, Roots shivers.
Better not drink the kool-aide then. I actually enjoyed a watermelon flavor that I found the bouquet to be sublime.
Roots-Sink-Deep smiles warmly at Phoebe, as the dryad pats his head. He then proceeds to hang by her during the return trip.
As Roots-Sink-Deep delivers a bizarre non-sequitur about watermelons and bouquets, Nidintu slows his walking pace to bring him alongside the diminutive leshy, concern returning to his fiendish features. Is he delirious again? How hard did those mites hit him, anyways?
With a sigh, he addresses his verdant ally. "Roots, did you receive another head wound? I'm still not sure you've fully recovered from five times before!" He holds his hand in front of his friend's face, three fingers extended. "How many fingers am I holding up - to the nearest dozen, if necessary?"
At Phoebe's question, Kilava laughs. "Cerise is my partner, but no, I speak of another. You will see."
The way back seems shorter (and perhaps it is, this being the First World after all), and it feels like the group is back to the glade with Cerise and her troupe in no time at all.
Even before the clearing comes into view, something immediately feels different. For one, it is quiet. The buzz of activity, the industrious noises, Cerise's shouting - they've all been replaced by a tense, expectant silence. But since Kilava does not seem concerned, the group pushes on.
As they enter the glade, the reason for the quiet becomes readily apparent, for at the center of the glade lounges the most enormous wolf one could imagine. The amber fur is dusted with black at the tips of the ears and tail, on the muzzle and in streaks that trace lightning bolts on the sides of the neck. The fey are gathered around the wolf, most of them in postures of reverence, watched over by half-closed, lambent green eyes.
Kilava herself goes to one knee as soon as she sets foot into the glade, spending a moment in which some unheard communication passes between her and the wolf. Rising, she turns to the group and smiles, extending a hand towards the latter.
"My lady, Fanderay, the Wolf of Summer. Older than the Eldest, and the leader of our little coterie."
The wolf turns her great head to regard you in a slow, lazy movement. Her nostrils flare a couple of times as she takes in your scent. Even lying down, the top of her head rises above the standing fey, so it is rather a relief when she remains in that pose.
Then she speaks.
It's not really a voice, and not really words, but rather a mix of images and sensations and just knowing her meaning. Mingled curiosity, assurance that you will not be harmed, an invitation to move closer, to move from "not-pack" to something that is not quite part of the pack but still provides security and comfort.
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Clementine thinks about Grandpa Clove, about the spicy scent that follows the family matriarch everywhere and the feeling of home that smell evokes in his chest. He approaches the massive wolf and kneels, holding the sensation of that memory at the front of his mind in case Fanderay can also read minds.
Phoebe then reaches beneath her dress, pulling on something and producing a algae-like vine to help cleaning the blood. "Thank you, Miss...?" She asks the gnome...
"Lani. Lani Bralani," Lani says. "Yes, it rhymes."
***
When the group finds themselves before the Wolf of Summer, the gnome genuflects appropriately. Though she herself has a pact with one of the Eldest, the witch knows better than to disrespect a fey who claims to be even older!
"We are honored to be in your presence, Lady. We serve at your pleasure."
Glittebloom chirps and bows as well.
Roots smiles up at Nidintu. The Root leshy just giving the elf a vines-up in response.
On the way back, the Druid talks the entire time about different foes that he has had to confront in his long (2 months) tenure as Erastil's hunter.
....and then this one time a gang of moths took possession of a possums pad, so I had to remove them by any means necessary.
Roots-Sink-Deep seems about to expound, but the sudden arrival of the throng to the glade (not to mention the huge wolf!) has actually silenced the leshy.....
Hearing the not a voice , the Druid of Erastil calmly (and quietly) approaches the Wolf of Summer. Kneeling inches from her flaring nostrils, Roots whispers
I am Roots-Sink-Deep, Hunter for Erastil. He says that I am at your service!
Phoebe slowly approaches Fanderay with obvious reverence, in clear awe over the majestic wolf. It reminded her of when her mother had taken her to the deep glade of Helicon, to receive her birth blessing as a Melete - the first muse born of water, immortalised through practice. The same sense of wonder came to her then; of the Nymphs and Satyrs alike practising various musics and arts in that busy yet harmonious place, ever untouched in its natural splendor. To, for the very first time, see your people at large and truly know your place inside the world.
And her moment of absolute failure, which then took it away.
She quickly put that thought aside. This... godlike, perhaps beyond godlike being, was friendly and offering shelter. It wasn't a time for doubt or misery.
Mimicking Kilava, she falls to one knee and tries to mentally convey feeling of gratitude over such an offer - especially in a place as dangerous as this. She didn't trust herself to use words, not when this being didn't also. That felt like overstepping her permission.
Could this be what he dreams of at night when he can't remember his dreams? Halrod doesn't think so. But there is something familiar about it. Something he can't put into words.
Halrod takes a knee, understanding without words that such a gesture is polite at the very least. But he remains vigilant. Not for foes, but for that fleeting sense of familiarity.
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Satisfied that Roots's injuries are reasonably minor, Nidintu begins droning on about some obscure topic that he once read a book on but that nobody else is really interested in - a fact which seems to escape the notice of the sesquipedalian elf. "...but the Almain rivet saw a steady decline in usage after the introduction of Gothic plate, which had superior coverage but a correspondingly greater material cost. With the warrior's limbs covered, the open face of the traditional bascinet proved the primary weakness in the new armor form, necessitating the development of a modified form of the... sallet..."
He trails off as he enters the silent clearing and watches Kilava's interaction with the empathic wolf. Watching the two fey speak (insofar as their actions can be considered speaking), he recalls the fantastical illustrations in Shepherd Ardeth's many books, reminders of the isolated hermitage he once called home and the kindly priest who raised two brothers with no other family in the ways of Erastil.
As he waits, he recalls a succession of nostalgic sensations from the depths of his memory - the rustle of worn pages, the familiar musty scent of his childhood home, and the feel of the ancient books held almost reverently in his hands. When his turn comes to express his willingness to serve this mysterious Fanderay, he steps forward, feeling something is expected of him. Kneeling before the Wolf of Summer, he recites the Knight's Pledge from The Oath of Mandraivus, one of his favorite books.
"I here swear fealty and do homage to the Lady Fanderay of the First World: to ever stand in the defense of her subjects, facing my foes with courage and honor, protecting the innocent, mindful of mercy, obedient to my liege, guardian of the just and right. Thus swear I, Nidintu-Bel."
He stands and resumes his place among his newfound allies.
Fanderay lays her great head onto her front paws, half-sighing, half-growling in contentment. The image of a pack of wolves running together through a forest fills your mind, and the feeling of belonging, of working together for the benefit of all. Yet it is clear that it is not you who feels that, merely something that is offered, a sharing of possibilities.
Cerise steps forward, clapping her hands. "I am so happy you are all - err, most of you, anyway - back safely! Please, rest a while. There are refreshments, if you wish, although I'm not entirely sure what you all eat." The nymph gestures towards an array of wooden bowls and leaf plates heaped with berries, nuts, honeycomb, grubs, mushrooms, and what appears to be water. She then steps away as she confers with Kilava in hushed tones.
Cerise's speech recalls Nidintu from his reverie. "Thank you, Miss Cerise. To the best of my knowledge, we are all capable of consuming the provided food - with the possible exception of Roots, who may prefer to photosynthesize instead." He looks the druid up and down (or down and further down, as the case may be) before addressing him. "Now that I think about it, I don't believe you actually have any leaves to photosynthesize with, my friend. Given that you are technically comprised entirely of aerial roots, I suppose that the conundrum of your respiration could be considered a 'pneumatophore' consideration!" He laughs slightly at his own pun.
Moving over to the provided table, Nidintu sits down, but waits for his fellows to be seated before he begins eating - partially out of politeness, but also partially due to Halrod's earlier warning about eating the provided food of the First World.
The Naiad finds comfort in the projected images and sensations; in the idea of belonging to some greater whole - and with a being as magnificent and powerful as Fanderay, no less. No not just that: to be accepted when she was but an insignificant stranger to her; an offer so grand and warm that it threatened to bring drops to her eyes. Perhaps being a half-blood would not get in the way of her functioning properly for this particular task, regardless of what it was?
No sooner does Cerise point towards the food does Phoebe then realize how hungry she is, having worked frantically without any rest or sustenance for at least a full day - probably. Her stomach growls and she blushes, then quickly inclines her head towards the Wolf of Summer. "I... thank you greatly for your hospitality and gifts, Lady Fanderay! My name is Phoebe; I don't quite know what it is you require of us, but I'm very much inclined to help!"
There, not a promise, but a stated intent. Mother would be proud - probably? Outright promises to powerful fey could still be disastrous - everything could still be a trick - though she felt it was only the most vile tasks that would bring her to risk opposing this being and losing her good will.