The sun has lit the mountain peaks, And gleams afar his spears of light; From Coolin's Sound the sea-mews cry Breaks on the stillness of the night. The fisher from the sunlit creek Sails towards the west, and soon must I, Then lingering on the rocks, I bid, A long good-night to Skye!
The restless sea that ebbs below Bears me tomorrow on its breast, Far from this isle of glooms and gleams For distant prairies in the West. Yet when no more these cliffs can scan, I'll envy gulls that homewards fly, In fancy, picture where they'll nest In some lone cave in Skye.
'Tis wandering here 'mong youthful haunts That makes me loath to say farewell; For every mound or cairn I pass Has some old tale to tell. Oh! Ne'er forget my island home, When dwelling 'neath sierras high; For who has viewed can e'er forget The misty isle of Skye?
The sun has set, the darkness spreads, 'Tis time to leave this lonely shore; A last and sad farewell must take To scenes I may behold no more. The croft I pass, where born and bred, The resting-place where clansfolk lie, And pray an exile may come back To lay his dust in Skye!
C.L.M.
On the mystical green Isles of Skye, ancient secrets, faerie magic, and religious conflicts frame the day-to-day life of close-knit human communities guarded by fur-clad warriors, and a lost elven people struggle to uncover the secrets of their history from the ruins of their home city in a foreign land. Humans traveled here centuries ago to escape the tyrannical rule of the Sorcerer-Kings, and travelers and merchants of all types still come to port at Darryl for their own reasons, some to escape the turmoil in Westemar, some to spread the Faith of the Sacred Flame in a heathen land still ruled by capricious entites, some to seek magical boons from the fae, and some to reclaim their own past.
The heroes of our story, here on the Isle of Skye, may soon need to ask the question if the events shaking the wider world will come to visit them here in their remote Isle, and what they ought to do about it...
Angus Mac Lochlann A human barbarian, having taken on the sacred task of guarding the fabled Sword in the Stone at the edge of the famed cliff of Giant's Lean...
Alorin Vonsin A half-elf ranger, shipwrecked on the Isle of Skye fifteen years ago, his family lost to sea, wanders the fairy roads and treads the dangerous line between mortal and fae folk...
Moz Crowthorn A goblin warlock, an outcast bound to service to one of the strange entities of the fey realm, visiting his master's capricious whims on mortals...
Rivyre Lightdove An eladrin cleric of the fey realm, whose family migrated to the mortal realm to escape her foul curse, which she found refuge from only in the embrace of the Church of the Sacred Flame. Now, after many years of religious service on the mainland, she returns to Skye, to see what has become of her family...
Sascha Von Syndowe A human fighter, noble of the House of Syndowe in Geldstadt, Westemar, a veteran of the civil war, having sought refuge in the isolated beauty of the Isles of Skye since the fighting in Westemar ended, knowing that she may yet be called upon again...
Thamno An elven sorcerer and carpenter, centuries old, having lived through the genocides of House von Drakken, the bloody Mage Wars, and the signing of the Edicts of Lumen. A whisperer of trees and a supporter of the common folk, he recently has sought his heritage in Skye where he still helps locals of all races with the building and repair of structures in their villages...
Vaelorn An elven monk and scholar, having lived his whole long life thus far in Skye absorbed in researching the lost history of the elves and studying their magic and artifacts for answers...
Valanthe Autumnfall A young and enterprising elven fighter, only daughter of the reigning Queen of Eladria, determined to live up to the responsibility of her heritage by fighting for her people in the wider world, but her mother has assigned her to study as an assistant to the scholar Vaelorn...
It is the first day of February, a chilling cold covers the hills and fields, and, too early for much planting, the people of the villages busy themselves with spreading manure, gathered up in the byres over the winter, and lime on their fields and howing it in, preparing the soil, digging dykes and making hedgerows ready to plant. But most are indoors today, repairing harnesses or working to craft needed implements, because a steady snow is falling, and though it little touches the boggy forest floor of the woods, the fields and meadows are nicely coated. It will be plowed into the soil later, but there is icy mist hanging over the land today, a fog blooming out from the earth.
Families in Darryl huddle in their longhouses, muttering fearfully at the fog, which they know in this season is partly beyond what is natural... their druids wrap up in fur robes and walk through the snow to make an extra sacrifice on a stone altar deep in the woods of a sheep thin from the winter, to stave off the ire of the fairy spirits and the glooming displeasure of Morrigan.
Families in Enniskillen load their boats on the shores of Lake Cygnet, taking their families before sunrise to the shelter of the island monastery of Saint Hugh, to chant the dawn hour with the monks and light candles to the Flame to pray for its protection from the fell fog that whispers say will raise the dead who have not been properly buried with Last Rites.
The weather outside is frightful... but Buttercup Lane is delightful.
Sometimes in the dead of winter, the fairy roads can be a pleasant reprieve. Alorinhas to push the hood of his winter cloak back, and his Seelie hound companion pants with a long pink tongue. The quaint, winding lane is hedged by dense hazel and towering beech trees, in the warm and lazy haze of a summer day. A carpet of bright yellow buttercups covers the grass on either side, and yet its hard to see much past the guardian trees. Alorin has to step over winding beech roots at times, and his boots crunch on ripe hazelnuts scattered underfoot that he knows better than to collect or eat.
The road winds and turns, and half hidden behind a beech tree, Alorin catches sight of a wrought-iron gate, formed like interwoven vines. It hangs partly open, and beyond it is a broad side-road lined with purple rhododendrons. Alorin has seen this side-road before, but never taken it. He knows better.
Then, in the distance, he hears something like a horn being blown, far away, and the keen baying of fairy hounds, their shrill warbles unlike any mortal dog. His canine companion pricks her ears and growls softly in her throat. Alorin looks up, and sees an owl, perched unseasonably in a branch of one of the beech trees, staring at him with enormous, moon-like eyes. And then he hears something else. The crying of a baby.
In a moment he puts it together. There is no greater prize for any fae than to kidnap a human infant, and it is not easy to do, for mortals guard their children well. But this one is in peril, this one is unguarded. This one may even have been... given up. Alorin knows it in the pit of his stomach... and looking at the owl, he sees a sudden vision in the flash of the owl's eyes. The stone bridge that leads from the hill in Darryl, over the confluence of the Cygnet and Gadabout Rivers as they flow into the bay, runs into a dense pine wood, where the great druid of Kromac made his sacrifices on a stone altar behind a squat stone hut. This long and perilous night, the first of February, wreathed in the terrible mist of Vague, was crowned with the birth of a baby girl in Darryl. But something was wrong. Something was wrong, and a desperate father brought the newly born child into the mist, and left her on the altar in the clearing, long after the central bonfire in the clearing was nothing but cold ash. The owl's eyes flash again, and the vision ends.
Alorinknows where he is. Buttercup Lane terminates at the Emerald Door, which is very close to Kromac's Clearing. If luck is with him, little time will pass in the mortal world before he reaches it. And reach it he knows he must, if there is any hope for that child, as the horns and baying hounds of the fairy lords run on their course through the edges of Faerie, eager to outpace any competition. Alorin looks back at the owl. It ruffles the feathers around its neck, and with a great spasm of its neck, coughs up a pellet that lands at Alorin's feet. Amongst the bones and fur of small animals that you would expect in an owl pellet, Alorin can clearly see two dice. Playing dice. He knows well enough who the message is from, then.
"Bring me that child!"With those earth-shattering words, Moz finds himself falling inexplicably, but not physically, out of the riotous court--where it was getting rather too hot with the mockery of floating fireballs that nearly threatened to singe the edges of his poor still-mortal ears--onto a rocky wasteland pockmarked with waterholes of mazy swamp. He swings around in a circle, and sees only the barren plain of rock and marsh, for miles, a huge, gloating white moon leaning down over him in the night sky.
Bring me that child, indeed. Where is the child, then? Oh, right there.Mozcan see the road, winding through the barren plain. Shadows skitter along the rocks around him as he runs, and he doesn't realize he's been holding his breath until his feet hit the gravel of the road. His limbs buzz and vibrate uncomfortably, and he shakes his head to clear the uncomfortable vibration. In a few seconds it fades, but it tells him which road he's on. The White Way. All color is leached out of the landscape around him. Moz feels garish, because he is certainly not colorless, himself, but he knows his way. A few steps along the gravel road, and the rock landscape drifts into the distance, replaced by a bewildering, colorless, twilight forest. The White Way will meet with Buttercup Lane, which drops its travellers out in Kromac's Clearing north of Darryl. A human infant was left in the clearing, given up by its parents. Why? Because of Vague? It doesn't matter. A baby, the choicest prize for his patron.
An owl hoots laughingly at him from the branches of one of the trees. The twilight begins to fade, and the path is plunged into utter darkness. Oh, what is this now? Trying to make his job difficult? Moz's large ears prick as they hear a faint sound in the blackness. The sound of a horn, and the distant baying of fairy hounds. He knows what that means. The race is on!
It was a reputable captain that the Church chartered for Rivyre's journey to Skye, and he even picked her up from a village on the Crystal Coast to avoid all the fuss of a major port. But he swore it wasn't safe to dock anywhere except at Darryl, due to the jagged basalt columns that surrounded many of the isles. "They're hidden under the water, and the more treacherous for it," he said. "I'd like to get us all safe to our destination. The local boatmen'll be much more confident in it to take you to the other isles."
Of course, the sea journey was perilous even without worrying about underwater columns. Rivyre knew that, and kept up with her prayers, especially during the storms that rocked the small ship, the fearful cries of the two other passengers loud enough to penetrate the cabin walls. She had no doubt the Flame would see them to port safely... and it did. It lands them in the harbor at Darryl, the pine-forested slopes reaching out as to embrace them in welcome, the stone buildings and longhouses winding around the shores. The chartered ship slowly moors itself along the dock next to a longboat that is still dropping anchor, itself. And Rivyre is home, back in Skye. It's an eerie feeling, after having been gone a century or more. Darryl is bigger than it was, richer, more buildings, more workshops, and better built. But the layout is essentially the same, the longhouse on the hill perched over the town like a brooding hen over its chicks. There is no presence of the Flame in this town, Rivyre knows. Even after a century, she can tell that this is still the case, for the construction of chapels and shrines to the Flame is distinct, with steeple and chimney.
Syletha leaps ahead of her onto the dock, its brown fur an indistinct blur amongst the early morning dock traffic. A strange icy mist hangs around the water, and most people are going about their business in a hurried, guarded manner, their eyes cast down, shoulders hunched against something more than just the cold. Rivyre doesn't remember it like this, and yet, she herself has changed so much, perhaps Darryl itself has changed less than she imagines. Still, she has a long journey to make, to find someone here who can take her to the flat green isle where her family had settled in the mortal world. Fingering the pouch of gold coins that the Church gave her for her traveling stipend, she looks around the docks, unnerved to see every person obviously, and sometimes even fearfully or aggressively, avoiding her gaze. Is it her Flamekeeper robes that rile them, or is it something else? Perhaps they sense in her that fae world that they fear. Doubt begins to gnaw at her that she will be able to find the accommodations she needs.
Syletha is unworried. In fact, the cat pads to the end of the dock, and turns back to Rivyre, its blue and yellow eyes gazing coolly at her through the early morning mist. Rivyre follows. Perhaps her familiar has another way... it often does. It leads her climbing log steps cut into the low hill, past the great longhouse, over the stone bridge that spans the confluence of two rivers, and around a great clearing in the pine forest. The cat is careful not to set foot in the clearing, slipping through the underbrush around it. Steadfastly, she follows it, tripping over jagged, mutant pine cones that litter the ground, and the enormous fir trees shiver with a strange, pink luminescence. Syletha stops abruptly a short distance north of the clearing, and meows. Right in front of the feline is a faint spot in the air that looks just a little different, like a pocket of bluish mist has gathered there without dissipating. Rivyre peers closerly, and a scintillating emerald curtain flashes into view for a moment, and then becomes imperceptible once more.
It's a door to a fairy road. Old memory surfaces in Rivyre's mind, not just the recent teachings of the Church of the dangers of the Chaos of the Fae realm, but something older, familiar, and it grips her with a fear and revulsion. No, her memories of her heritage are not pleasant. Chaos had its way with her too hard. But she doesn't fear fairy roads, and if Syletha has brought her here, this might be the fastest way to her destination. The Eladrin waits until the flash of emerald appears again, and then she steps into it.
Icy mist and snow drop away to a warm summer afternoon, fields of butterchips lining the quaint and winding path. Rivyre takes a deep breath, and she sets out down the road, Syletha trotting at her side with its tail confidently in the air. The miles are long, and the heat quite oppressive for Rivyre's winter layers.
But she follows the tressym, even when Syletha darts down a strange sideroad that quickly drops the travellers into a deep, zigzagging canyon, the shadowy path chaotic and exhausting, back and forth ad nauseum. Of course it would be faster to just cut across... even clambering over the rocks at the bottom of the canyon doesn't look too hard. But Rivyre knows well the rules of fairy roads, and Syletha is sticking carefully to the path. So does she. A midnight blue sky holds a heavy, red sun, washing pale light over the canyon. The pathway drops down a steep staircase into pitch blackness for about a mile, and then returns under the canyon to the wan red sun. Eventually, Rivyre is too tired to continue, and makes camp, nibbling on some rations and saying her evening prayers. The holy words feel slow and lethargic in her mouth, like they don't want to come out, and the sound of them falls forbiddingly dead as she speaks them, instead of echoing against the canyon walls. Indeed, the canyon walls themselves seem to grow taller and more menancing in response to her invocations. Rivyre notes this, but pushes herself to finish her prayers before she goes to sleep. She sleeps fitfully. There is no difference between day and night here, but eventually she wakes, and continues in Syletha's footsteps.
Rivyre counts it must have been at least two and a half days of travel before Syletha suddenly scrambles up the ravine wall, moving nearly vertically. At first, Rivyre cannot see where the path is... but then she sees it, and knows, somehow, that she can walk on it, despite it being vertical. She walks straight up it, ascending the wall, and steps over the lip of the canyon to find herself suddenly under the eaves of a heavy wood, a ten foot wide chasm at her back, wet snow blanketing the ground everywhere except where the trees cluster the thickest, right around the chasm. Syletha stands before her, and then turns and sits purring, its mismatched eyes blinking slowly and contentedly.
The icy mist is back. They are back in the mortal world. And, eerily, Rivyre realizes, despite having journeyed for days on the fairy road, only a few minutes have passed here since she walked through the emerald curtain in Darryl. A very few. Slowly she walks through the copse of trees, peeking out under the eaves. A great, flat expanse of snow-covered meadow stretches upwards before her, as large as a mountain, only graded and flat, rising steeply. Now she knows where she is. This is the Giant's Lean, the great cliff that overlooks the whole north shore of the Isle of Skye. Her heart leaps as she realizes she will be able to see the green isle where her parents settled. Leaning into the climb, she sets herself to walk up, and up... crunching through the snow, snowflakes whirling in the high air around her, the icy mist clinging to the edges of the great cliff. Syletha scampers along at her side.
Within a few hours, she finally reaches the peak. And here, she sees to her surprise, it appears that a little homestead has been constructed. A few cattle stand in a covered bier, munching on hay covering the ground under the shelter that had likely been stuffed to the rafters at the end of summer. A few sheep stand with them, wooly, soft, round, and bleating. A dog laying by the bier lifts its head, a warning growling starting in its throat. Astonished, Rivyre looks at the animals, and then, naturally, to the humble hut at the edge of the cliff, telltale smoke rising from its chimney...
The icy mist creeping in even to the hallowed and quiet ruins of Eladria tells the scholars everything they need to know. It's the unseason of Vague, which hasn't come in eight years, and it might not last more than a day. Vaelorn unlocks the door to the small, reconstructed library, and after his usual checks to make sure the books and scrolls were not disturbed over the night, he gathers up his papers and writing implements. In his haste, he fumbles a small jar of walnut hull ink. It tumbles merrily to the floor of strange green stone, meticulously cleared of moss. Valanthe, at his side, reaches down helpfully to grab the jar, only to have it leap from the floor under her hand, whisk itself away from her, and settle carefully in a folio floating oddly in midair. Well, not that oddly. If Valanthe could see Vaelorn's Unseen Servant, she might glare daggers at it, but there's nothing to see.
The two then venture across the ravaged beauty of the central courtyard of Eladria. The remains of ornate staircases spiral up into the tops of huge, elegant, branching trees, gently holding homes, walkways, and even waterways and fountains, in their arboreal embrace. Eladria whispers of an alien world, steeped in history and majestic, and it whispers also, that it is all that is left of that world. Vaelorn and Valanthe walk across the green stone paths, between the remnants of strange plants and trellised gardens, a mystical way to a dome of green stone in the heart of the city.
The filtered sunshine breathes only an effervescent glow into the alien city through its canopy roof. The shadow of an unlit place drops over the two as they step across the threshold of the green dome, but worse is the shadow of heartbreak and despair that falls over their hearts. Valanthe has lived only her young years, and yet she still feels the misery of this place. The place of the elves' exodus, a shrine to their exile. Altars, daises, and archways surround a shimmering and bubbling liquid set in a vast pool in the center of the green dome.
Vaelorn knows that eight years ago, the only effect that Vague had on the Elfgates was to churn up the water, boiling it into geometric ripples that filled his mind with an agony of despair so intense that he had to fight back the desire to throw himself into the pool and perish.
Valanthe remembers Vague, of course, that occasional unseason that drifts into the mortal world from fairy. But she was not in Eladria the other times that Vague came. She just remembers having had to shoot down a lot more walking dead than usual. The dark pall over her heart is sobering, and it is one of the reasons why she, and all the other elves, really like to not visit the Elfgates. Those who have lived longer seem to feel it more, but it's still there for her. As a child she wanted nothing to do with this unhappy green dome, and only in her hopefully more sober coming of age might she learn to appreciate what the elves have lost... and the price they have paid.
The two stand and watch as the sunlight slowly warms the icy mist outside. And then something does happen. Something that Vaelorn only saw once before in all his life, nearly 15 years ago. The empty settings in the archways and on the diases surrounding the Elfgates suddenly flare and crackle, as if the energy moving through them that had been short circuited by the removal of their inserts is suddenly trying to leap the space in between, to bridge the gap, as if its lodestone were on the verge of restoring the connection. No, this, this is not to do with Vague. It's something else...
There had been a big party in Enniskillen for Brother Feock, and the monks had come off of their island to attend. Of course the locals plied them all with mead (which the monks accepted) and roast wild boar (which they did not, because the monks kept the fasting season all winter). Brother Feock had been sent to Skye during the civil war, and now that the war was over, the Church was asking him back to serve the small chapel in a previously abandoned village on the Crystal Coast near Helburg.
Sascha, running low on funds, and always glad for an opportunity to serve the Church and gain some blessings, of course, had accepted the job of guarding Brother Feock on the Emerald Road to Darryl, where a chartered ship would take him back to the mainland. It wasn't a hard job. The road through the Glens of Vardale was well traveled, the farming families and shepherds that grazed and grew the hilly green fields were well-situated, stable, and friendly, and few tribe skirmishes had happened in that area for the past hundred years. Even the warring clans had no desire to disturb the common grazing rights and breadbasket of the Isle. Still, it was a week's journey at an easy pace, and Sascha was happy to keep a lookout for Brother Feock with her sword and courser at ready for any trouble.
They didn't have any trouble, though. Not on the road, nor in the port town. The weather wasn't even that bad, although a gloomy sky and cold wind accompanied their arrival in Darryl. Though Darryl isn't a town where the Sacred Flame is popular, it's enough of a trade city to offer safe lodgings for any traveller, regardless of affiliation, at least until you start to stir things up. Brother Feock booked a room in a cozy stone inn and Sascha took herself to a local meadhall to hear some stories. Mostly a bad lot of boar hunting yarns, cautionary tales of fairy vengeance on a family that forgot to leave a proper offering, a few complaints about the weather, and a whole lot of boring talk about where there was still forage for the sheep at this time of year.
Brother Feock has to wait a few days for the chartered ship to arrive, but the morning it does, an icy mist is hanging over the harbor, the snow-coated hills and pine trees huddled as if watching and waiting. The whole tone of the town has changed, even as the dawn begins to break, there are less people out than usual on the docks, and those that are there move quickly, avoiding eye contact even with neighbors they would usually greet. Sascha joins Brother Feock for his morning prayers to help quell her uneasiness, but then she goes to the stables to saddle her warhorse and ride out as she does every morning to see if the ship has arrived.
Two ships come in, this morning. One is an Elyrian vessel--hopefully, that's the charter--and one a Lochlann longship, both pulling into the docks at nearly the same time. Sascha sees a Flamekeeper disembark from the Elyrian ship, and soon after, disappear into the town. The longship takes longer to unload. It looks like a crew of raiders, honestly--burly warriors well dressed in caps and furs and lashed leather boots lined with fur. They shout and roar as they clamber off of the longship, spitting on the docks, the spittle freezing before it hits. Sascha can't hear what they're saying from the distance she's at, but they're behaving awfully excitedly, grabbing dock workers and gesturing towards the boat. Slowly, at the warriors' urging, a crowd begins to gather at the dock.
With heavy step, a figure in a cloak of bearskin steps out of the longship. He holds in his bare hands something that immediately startles the senses and draws the attention, making you look twice, more intrigued than you really should be, without being able to tell why. It's a rock, a crystal, suffused with an octarine glow, and while its crystalline shape is nothing special on its own, there is something alarming about it. The crowd on the dock is clearly riveted, they all stand in a semi-circle, not moving, as the bearskin-robed man---it's one of the Druids, Sascha realizes---lifts up the glowing, violet crystal. He shouts something that Sascha can't hear, and the crowd immediately animates, shouting, waving, whether cheering him on, or protesting, Sascha can't really tell. Part of the crowd surges forward, but part of it backpedals, people pulling at each other almost fearfully.
The Druid walks forward, holding up the crystal, and Sascha nearly forgets her duty, seated on her horse away up the hill from the docks, as a strange feeling of forboding washes over her.
Taking in the scene before her, Rivyre doesn't remember anyone living in this part of Isles when she was a child. Not wanting to further anger the dog she backs way slowly careful not to provoke him further. She looks to the smoke rising from the hut on the cliff. She beckons Syletha to follow her as she makes her way toward the smoke while keeping an eye out for any hidden dangers. (Dice Maiden Perception Check + Guidance @ 6:10pm= 16)
Sascha wasn't especially devout. She believed, certainly, and she had been instilled with the proper socially acceptable respect for the Sacred Flame. Naturally she was willing to assist Feock in his journey, and to ensure his safety until he could board his chartered ship. She'd felt a little odd about the arrangement despite herself. The faith's expansion here threatened the elvish culture she'd so admired all her life, and especially since her arrival here. Still it was better to keep her reservations to herself. The noble, travelling cloak pulled tight against the misty air, urged her horse to walk down toward ships, toward the bearskin-clad man and his strange stone. She'd never seen it herself, but she'd heard the news as a child, when it was first making its way throughout the noble courts of Westemär. Was this Delereum?
Sascha's movement into the crowd was hesitant at first. but she had a sword at her hip and her mount below her. She was a soldier as much as she was a noblewoman. if this situation did escalate she was confident in her own safety. Feock however, was safer waiting behind, and she was glad the man hadn't accompanied her in this moment..The Monk would only be in danger in this impassion crowd lead by a Druid, even without him brandishing cursed stone.
Sascha simply drew in closer, trying to understand the situation that was afoot. Her eyes were fixed on the man in the bearskin cloak above all else.
Angus wipes the sweat from his brow as he sets down his axe. Despite the icy fog, Angushas gone to restock on firewood, chopping down select trees form the nearby forest at the base of the cliff. He loads up the fallen timber, dons his thick, hide cloak, and begins his trek through the crisp snow back up to his home in Giant's Lean. Once within earshot of his surprise guest, he lets out a high-pitched whistle to signal to his faithful hound, Timber, that he has company.
"O! Hello there traveler! Come to visit the blade 'ave ya? Was busy runnin' some errands but I can give ya the tour!" "If it's to ya likin' you go on inside. I'll be in shortly, once this firewood's sorted out."
The once snarling hound ceases its aggression at the sound of his master voice and begins to trot, with tail wagging, past the robed individual and pushes his way into hut, leaving the door swung open wide. The interior of the rather small cabin is moderately decorated with animal pelt rugs and blankets strewn across the rough-hewn but smooth wooden furniture. Upon the mantle is a small collection of hand-carved totems resembling the various shrines to the Old Gods one might see across the settlements of the Northfolk. Some are carved from various woods, some clay, others worked animal bones, all very delicate with details and rather small in stature. Among the walls are more fur coats, serving as coverings for the sparce windows, and wool and linen tapestries depicting histories or various sorts. Mostly of conflict and ancient myths or folklore.
The large man's voice can still be heard from the other side of the cabin: "The fire inside should still be burnin', and if that don't warm ya up, i can get a stew goin'."
Alorin pauses, his breath catching for a moment, as he considers the pellet lying on the path amidst roots and fallen leaves and nuts. He briefly looks it over, seeking to ensure that the true content of the message was in the vision he received, and that there was nothing more to the pellet than a mere signature on the message. (Perception Roll: 25)
For a heartbeat, he considers picking it up, just in case. However, years of caution from walking the faerie roads, and especially his memories of a mischievous goblin prankster, flit through his mind, causing a smirk to cross his lips. With a resolute shake of his head, he decides to leave the pellet undisturbed. Instead, he gestures for Ellynel, his loyal Seelie hound, to follow, urgency propelling him forward along the winding path of Buttercup Lane.
As they move, Alorin’s heart aches with the weight of his past. He knows, all too well, the agony of losing a family, the void that such loss carves into one’s soul. He can hardly fathom what kind of father could abandon his own child. Such a person does not deserve to be called a father, he thinks bitterly, but he quickly shakes off the thought. Now is not the time for such musings. “You know, as well as I, El,” he murmurs in Sylvan, his voice low and steady, “a babe is no quarry to be hunted, no prize to be won.” She nods in understanding, a brief flicker of pain and resolution crossing her face, much like the memory of a painful event that led to a wonderful outcome passing through her mind.
Together, they quicken their pace down Buttercup Lane, where the vibrant buttercups sway gently in a phantom breeze, their golden faces turned towards the dense canopy above. The path winds through the towering beech trees, their branches casting long shadows that dance ominously over the roots that cover the ground. Alorin knows that the true race will not be won on the fairy roads, but at the Emerald Door, where the veil between realms thins and time itself feels elastic. Yet, the urgency driving them forward keeps them from slowing, a primal instinct urging them onward.
A low growl rumbles deep in Ellynel’s throat as they press on, the sound resonating with the quiet tension in the air. Alorin’s fingers tighten around the hilts of his weapons, ready for whatever dangers may lurk in the shadows. They have an infant to save from the relentless pursuit of the Hunt, and a mystery to unravel that speaks of change on the horizon.
Valanthe gasps at the energy pulsing through the Elfgates and looks Vaelorn, then back to the crackling archways, and finally back to her elder hoping for a glimmer of a reaction so she knows how to respond. "That's not supposed to happen, right? I mean... that's not normal, Vaelorn - what should I do?" she asks as she shifts nervously on the spot.
For his part, the elder of the two at the Elfgates was pulling out a piece of paper and quill, taking notes and listing anything he can think of in the moment for what could be restarting those energies, "No, it isn't normal, I've seen this once, around fifteen years ago. As for what to do, I'm not sure what to expect here, this is very odd." he looks back to his notes, checking if he's missed anything, any detail he could add(perception check:13) and decides he's satisfied for now with the notes, "I do think we should bring this up to the queen, but I don't know how long this will be flaring up as it is." his curiosity keeping him from moving away, or even towards the gates, nervous of what this could mean, but also very intrigued, as if the Elfgates could be restored, there is much of their history that could be brought to light, but guidance to the younger Valanthe, he sadly wasn't in much of a pace to offer, twisted as his thoughts are in this moment.
Rivyre lowers her guard w/ the dog being called off, but pleasantly surprised by this burly man's polite demeanor. Seeing no threat posed, she & Syletha make their way down & walk into the hut. Once in earshot of the man behind the hut she says,
"Take your time kind sir. I'm in no rush."
For how quaint the interior is & w/ the more comfortable accomodations Rivyre is used to for Flamekeepers of the Faith, this is surprisinigly warm & cozy. Syletha has no trouble making herself at home folding her wings & curling up on one of the animal fur rugs near the fire purring softly w/ content. She chuckles, gives @/a reluctant sigh, & telepathically says to Syletha, "I'm not going to be able to get you to leave that spot willingly when we're finished here am I?" She's impressed w/ the carved totems & tapestries that make up this hut. This man is quite the craftsman, & is happy to see that worship of the Old Gods has not waned even w/ the Faith moving in on Skye..., much to her disapproval of the Sacred Flames political goals.
After some time exploring the hut, she finds a comfortable spot next to Syletha gently scritching her behind the ears. Going back to what the man said about "touring the sword". She's assuming he means the Sword of Nuada. She has never seen the sword in person, but her parents have told her the legend a few times when she was a child, and perhaps a passing mention while reading history books at the Altbruke University Library. As far as she's aware it's just folklore, but not a lot fact. (History check: 21) Rivyre is curious if this man knows anything not widely known.
Another question comes to mind that looking around & recalls what she saw outside. It seems this man has lived here quite awhile..., perhaps he's been to Almorra just across the sea from Giant's Lean. Could he have met or even know my family & if they are still there?
Sascha's horse picks its way down the hill to the docks, and steps briskly onto the slick boards, a cloud of steam puffing from its nostrils. The crowd that is gathering quickly gives way before the warhorse's size and intimidating presence. Sascha is able to easily get onto the docks and within earshot of the Druid holding the strange, glowing crystal. The faces of the people gathered, are well-wrapped in scarves and furs, sometimes only their eyes peering out, a tinge of frost on eyebrows and eyelashes. At first, the Druid's words sound strange to her, but then she realizes he is in fact speaking Median, or Common as it sometimes called, if with a heavy accent and in a bit of a dialect.
"Now with the portent of the unseason of Vague coming this first Colly of the Deep Winter shows that our spoils were destined for the glory of Kromac, which Morrigan has prepared our altar for." He looks down at the glowing rock cradled in the palms of his hands. "Kromac gave us victory. I will offer this magical stone back to him, at the sacrifice tonight. Now, my warriors crowned with spoils!" He raises his head, looking with eyes that are unnaturally piercing around the crowd. The fur-clad warriors that had disembarked from the longship, intermixed now with the gathering crowd, lean forward in silent anticipation, their breath steaming in the freezing air. "Take your feasting today, but respect the Witch; set no foot near the burial mounds. For Kromac!"
"For Kromac!" the warriors, and most of the crowd that has gathered, roar. Battleaxes, torches, clubs, pendants of wolves' teeth, a few skulls--it is a dizzying mishmash of items that the crowd holds up high in their exaltation.
The enthusiastic crowd presses forward, but behind the docks on the pathways leading up the hill, Sascha can see others, the ones who had not opted to join the crowd, running quickly up the steps and the window trackways to homes and workshops, making superstitious gestures against the evils of Fairy as they stumble through the icy mist.
Rivyre has heard the tales of the Sword of Nuada, indeed she has heard several different tales. Most of them ascribe the sword's forging from the foundation of the earth by Gaibhne as a gift for his daughter Nuada in the fight against evil. Some tales talk about the martyrdom of Nuada and say that angels placed her sword in a stone to wait for her to be reborn and claim it, and none but her reincarnation will be able to remove it. Others say that it isn't Nuada's reincarnation, for she has never died, but a warrior chosen by her to fight against evil who will eventually be able to remove it. Other tales say that the blade is of Fey make and is a key to open the door between the realms, and the fey lords watch it from their own realm, waiting for the day that a mortal figures out its curse and removes it, at which point the gates to Faerie will be flung wide, and the whole Isle of Skye will come under their dominion. Still other stories, in a variant on the key tale, say that it was used by Sorcerer-Queen Kaestelaria VIII to lock the fey out of the mortal world after they had decimated her armies. Others say that the royal line of Westemar died with the sorcerer-kings, that even the von Drakkens were usurpers, and one day a true king will be born, and he will be known because he pulls the sword from the stone. There is just one other obscure legend that had caught Rivyre's attention, and that is that the true king can only be one whose lineage is completely untouched by arcane magic or any eldritch pact among its ancestors.
Only one or two very pedantic history books on the Isles of Skye at Altbruke had even mentioned the legend. One of them had recounted the dizzying array of variants of the tale, in clear disbelief of all of them, since apparently, the Sword had been there nearly as long as the Elves had. Being from Skye herself, Rivyre had dug deeper into the library than probably anyone else ever had on the topic of her homeland, but there was nothing conclusive to be found about this Sword. The only other possible source of information Rivyre can think of that might know more, would be the Amethyst Academy, but they keep their research, writings, and theories to themselves.
Syletha twitches her tail and blinks slowly at the Eladrin seated next to her. A smooth purr starts up from her throat as Rivyre scritches her ears.
As Alorin peers closely at the owl pellet, the fur and bones within it start to suddenly tremble. Alorin's instincts are well-honed enough to back away from the object just before it explodes in a small swarm of disturbingly reconstituted rats, some of them missing scraps of hide, or a tail, and all of them missing softer bits like ears and eyeballs. They scamper off the path, squeaking defiantly, and disappear into the roots of the beech trees. The pellet is gone in a cloud of putrid dust, but the two playing dice remain sitting there, laying flat on the road now. Of the sides of the dice that face upwards, one has three delicately carved pips, and the other has two.
Alorin decides it is wise not to touch the dice. Ellynell keeps easy pace with him, and as they travel, not hurrying to the point of exhaustion, but neither dallying, the Seelie dog's ears prick in the direction of the distant baying of fey hounds. At first, it is behind them. A few hours of travel later, it seems to be in front of them. And still the golden buttercups dance in the lazy afternoon. Alorin is confident in his knowledge that however much the road winds or what they see on it, it will end at the Emerald Door, and that is where he needs to be right now.
Ahead of them on the road, a huge tree leans over the path, leaning its branches heavily. They are laden with what looks like ripe, succulent peaches, of a soft, warm, summery color. The leaves and bark are wrong for a peach tree, nor is it the usual beech or hazel. Ellynell, without slowing her pace, lifts her head to sniff the air, the syrupy ripe smell of the fruit assaulting both of their senses.
Vaelorn has his quill at the ready to record what he's observing, but as quickly as the strange phenomenon began, the sparks fade, and the gates return to normal. Then, like a wave rearing up and crashing on a still shore after having drawn far back with the tide, a terrible grief and foreboding floods the two elves as they stand there. The arcane water of the pool ripples and churns.
Drink the water, and you will live forever. Won't that be a blessing? It's not quite a voice, but more a mocking thought, that pushes itself into both of their minds. They seem to hear echoing laughter that ripples in the same rhythm as the pool...
Listening to the horn and hounds in the distance and encroaching darkness Moz grins. Well, if it's a race they want.... then I better start figuring out a way to cheat." Iago! Get your skinny butt out here, I need your eyes." There is a shimmer in the air as the small imp appears. Flapping his wings, the Imp settles on a branch and begins to idly inspect one of his claws. "So a child, nice to see some people still respect the old ways. What's the plan?"
" Not sure yet just playing it by ear. For now stay out of sight and keep your eyes open."His short legs pumping at he walks into the darkness. Iago flaps his wings and lands on Moz's shoulder. Tilting his head toward the noise "The Hunt has already begin. I wonder who is leading it? I hope it's not that prig Oberon, can't stand that guy. All his thees and thous and for such with....." Moz's blackouts the Imp's complaining, focusing on his bond with Iago he opens his senses to the Imp's. Moz's Eye flash red in the magical darkness (Call on my bond to access the Imp's senses and his Devil Sight ability)
"You know with this racket they are making, everyone and their dog will be going for that baby, and you know who I mean by that." Moz's laughs and grins wickedly"Alorin, I do hope so. I owe him one from last time, plus he might be of some use if it's a three way tie." "What about the child? Alorin isn't going to just let you take the child." "Well we will just have to burn that bridge when we get there." The pair plunge further into the darkness covered road toward the Emerald Door.
After a few minutes of the hearth crackling, Angussqueezes through the door and settles into one of the hewn chairs. He takes a quick glance at his robed guest and attempts to place its design. (Religion Check: 19)
"Good mornin' to ya, lassie. The name's Angus Lochlan, of clan Lochlan, and I am the steward and groundskeeper of this relic of the Old Gods." "So... what brings you to my humble abode on this frigid morn? I have a feelin' that you arn't here for the same reasons as prior visitors, just by the look of ya."
Angus recollects on his past guests. Most are followers of the Old Ways, embarking on a pilgrimage to pay their respects and earn favor with Nuada, are sharp-witted, nimble, traveling blades, or are like Angus and seek to test their might in battle. He appreciates a good duel, but followers of the new faiths are few and far between.
"A pleasure to meet you Angus. I'm Rivyre Lightdove.(*she chuckles) Yes, I suppose my robes do make it rather obvious I am not a usual visitor. I am a Flamekeeper of the Sacred Flame. In truth, I was just passing through Giant's Lean on my way home to Almorra."
(Rivyre pauses for a moment) "Last I remember, the Sword of Nuada had no steward. I've always wanted to see the sword at least once in my life, it's just my parents never took me. However, they did tell me the various legends of the the Old Gods & they made many offerings & prayers to Dian Cheht, the Healer when I was a child."
(Rivyre continues) "So what made you decide to become steward to the Sword of Nuada? I respect anyone who takes up such a noble cause & be true to their faith & beliefs."
Good-night to Skye
The sun has lit the mountain peaks,
And gleams afar his spears of light;
From Coolin's Sound the sea-mews cry
Breaks on the stillness of the night.
The fisher from the sunlit creek
Sails towards the west, and soon must I,
Then lingering on the rocks, I bid,
A long good-night to Skye!
The restless sea that ebbs below
Bears me tomorrow on its breast,
Far from this isle of glooms and gleams
For distant prairies in the West.
Yet when no more these cliffs can scan,
I'll envy gulls that homewards fly,
In fancy, picture where they'll nest
In some lone cave in Skye.
'Tis wandering here 'mong youthful haunts
That makes me loath to say farewell;
For every mound or cairn I pass
Has some old tale to tell.
Oh! Ne'er forget my island home,
When dwelling 'neath sierras high;
For who has viewed can e'er forget
The misty isle of Skye?
The sun has set, the darkness spreads,
'Tis time to leave this lonely shore;
A last and sad farewell must take
To scenes I may behold no more.
The croft I pass, where born and bred,
The resting-place where clansfolk lie,
And pray an exile may come back
To lay his dust in Skye!
C.L.M.
On the mystical green Isles of Skye, ancient secrets, faerie magic, and religious conflicts frame the day-to-day life of close-knit human communities guarded by fur-clad warriors, and a lost elven people struggle to uncover the secrets of their history from the ruins of their home city in a foreign land. Humans traveled here centuries ago to escape the tyrannical rule of the Sorcerer-Kings, and travelers and merchants of all types still come to port at Darryl for their own reasons, some to escape the turmoil in Westemar, some to spread the Faith of the Sacred Flame in a heathen land still ruled by capricious entites, some to seek magical boons from the fae, and some to reclaim their own past.
The heroes of our story, here on the Isle of Skye, may soon need to ask the question if the events shaking the wider world will come to visit them here in their remote Isle, and what they ought to do about it...
Angus Mac Lochlann
A human barbarian, having taken on the sacred task of guarding the fabled Sword in the Stone at the edge of the famed cliff of Giant's Lean...
Alorin Vonsin
A half-elf ranger, shipwrecked on the Isle of Skye fifteen years ago, his family lost to sea, wanders the fairy roads and treads the dangerous line between mortal and fae folk...
Moz Crowthorn
A goblin warlock, an outcast bound to service to one of the strange entities of the fey realm, visiting his master's capricious whims on mortals...
Rivyre Lightdove
An eladrin cleric of the fey realm, whose family migrated to the mortal realm to escape her foul curse, which she found refuge from only in the embrace of the Church of the Sacred Flame. Now, after many years of religious service on the mainland, she returns to Skye, to see what has become of her family...
Sascha Von Syndowe
A human fighter, noble of the House of Syndowe in Geldstadt, Westemar, a veteran of the civil war, having sought refuge in the isolated beauty of the Isles of Skye since the fighting in Westemar ended, knowing that she may yet be called upon again...
Thamno
An elven sorcerer and carpenter, centuries old, having lived through the genocides of House von Drakken, the bloody Mage Wars, and the signing of the Edicts of Lumen. A whisperer of trees and a supporter of the common folk, he recently has sought his heritage in Skye where he still helps locals of all races with the building and repair of structures in their villages...
Vaelorn
An elven monk and scholar, having lived his whole long life thus far in Skye absorbed in researching the lost history of the elves and studying their magic and artifacts for answers...
Valanthe Autumnfall
A young and enterprising elven fighter, only daughter of the reigning Queen of Eladria, determined to live up to the responsibility of her heritage by fighting for her people in the wider world, but her mother has assigned her to study as an assistant to the scholar Vaelorn...
It is the first day of February, a chilling cold covers the hills and fields, and, too early for much planting, the people of the villages busy themselves with spreading manure, gathered up in the byres over the winter, and lime on their fields and howing it in, preparing the soil, digging dykes and making hedgerows ready to plant. But most are indoors today, repairing harnesses or working to craft needed implements, because a steady snow is falling, and though it little touches the boggy forest floor of the woods, the fields and meadows are nicely coated. It will be plowed into the soil later, but there is icy mist hanging over the land today, a fog blooming out from the earth.
Families in Darryl huddle in their longhouses, muttering fearfully at the fog, which they know in this season is partly beyond what is natural... their druids wrap up in fur robes and walk through the snow to make an extra sacrifice on a stone altar deep in the woods of a sheep thin from the winter, to stave off the ire of the fairy spirits and the glooming displeasure of Morrigan.
Families in Enniskillen load their boats on the shores of Lake Cygnet, taking their families before sunrise to the shelter of the island monastery of Saint Hugh, to chant the dawn hour with the monks and light candles to the Flame to pray for its protection from the fell fog that whispers say will raise the dead who have not been properly buried with Last Rites.
Alorin Vonsin
February 1, 1126
The weather outside is frightful... but Buttercup Lane is delightful.
Sometimes in the dead of winter, the fairy roads can be a pleasant reprieve. Alorin has to push the hood of his winter cloak back, and his Seelie hound companion pants with a long pink tongue. The quaint, winding lane is hedged by dense hazel and towering beech trees, in the warm and lazy haze of a summer day. A carpet of bright yellow buttercups covers the grass on either side, and yet its hard to see much past the guardian trees. Alorin has to step over winding beech roots at times, and his boots crunch on ripe hazelnuts scattered underfoot that he knows better than to collect or eat.
The road winds and turns, and half hidden behind a beech tree, Alorin catches sight of a wrought-iron gate, formed like interwoven vines. It hangs partly open, and beyond it is a broad side-road lined with purple rhododendrons. Alorin has seen this side-road before, but never taken it. He knows better.
Then, in the distance, he hears something like a horn being blown, far away, and the keen baying of fairy hounds, their shrill warbles unlike any mortal dog. His canine companion pricks her ears and growls softly in her throat. Alorin looks up, and sees an owl, perched unseasonably in a branch of one of the beech trees, staring at him with enormous, moon-like eyes. And then he hears something else. The crying of a baby.
In a moment he puts it together. There is no greater prize for any fae than to kidnap a human infant, and it is not easy to do, for mortals guard their children well. But this one is in peril, this one is unguarded. This one may even have been... given up. Alorin knows it in the pit of his stomach... and looking at the owl, he sees a sudden vision in the flash of the owl's eyes. The stone bridge that leads from the hill in Darryl, over the confluence of the Cygnet and Gadabout Rivers as they flow into the bay, runs into a dense pine wood, where the great druid of Kromac made his sacrifices on a stone altar behind a squat stone hut. This long and perilous night, the first of February, wreathed in the terrible mist of Vague, was crowned with the birth of a baby girl in Darryl. But something was wrong. Something was wrong, and a desperate father brought the newly born child into the mist, and left her on the altar in the clearing, long after the central bonfire in the clearing was nothing but cold ash. The owl's eyes flash again, and the vision ends.
Alorin knows where he is. Buttercup Lane terminates at the Emerald Door, which is very close to Kromac's Clearing. If luck is with him, little time will pass in the mortal world before he reaches it. And reach it he knows he must, if there is any hope for that child, as the horns and baying hounds of the fairy lords run on their course through the edges of Faerie, eager to outpace any competition. Alorin looks back at the owl. It ruffles the feathers around its neck, and with a great spasm of its neck, coughs up a pellet that lands at Alorin's feet. Amongst the bones and fur of small animals that you would expect in an owl pellet, Alorin can clearly see two dice. Playing dice. He knows well enough who the message is from, then.
Moz Crowthorn
February 1, 1126
"Bring me that child!" With those earth-shattering words, Moz finds himself falling inexplicably, but not physically, out of the riotous court--where it was getting rather too hot with the mockery of floating fireballs that nearly threatened to singe the edges of his poor still-mortal ears--onto a rocky wasteland pockmarked with waterholes of mazy swamp. He swings around in a circle, and sees only the barren plain of rock and marsh, for miles, a huge, gloating white moon leaning down over him in the night sky.
Bring me that child, indeed. Where is the child, then? Oh, right there. Moz can see the road, winding through the barren plain. Shadows skitter along the rocks around him as he runs, and he doesn't realize he's been holding his breath until his feet hit the gravel of the road. His limbs buzz and vibrate uncomfortably, and he shakes his head to clear the uncomfortable vibration. In a few seconds it fades, but it tells him which road he's on. The White Way. All color is leached out of the landscape around him. Moz feels garish, because he is certainly not colorless, himself, but he knows his way. A few steps along the gravel road, and the rock landscape drifts into the distance, replaced by a bewildering, colorless, twilight forest. The White Way will meet with Buttercup Lane, which drops its travellers out in Kromac's Clearing north of Darryl. A human infant was left in the clearing, given up by its parents. Why? Because of Vague? It doesn't matter. A baby, the choicest prize for his patron.
An owl hoots laughingly at him from the branches of one of the trees. The twilight begins to fade, and the path is plunged into utter darkness. Oh, what is this now? Trying to make his job difficult? Moz's large ears prick as they hear a faint sound in the blackness. The sound of a horn, and the distant baying of fairy hounds. He knows what that means. The race is on!
Rivyre Lightdove and Angus Mac Lochlann
February 1, 1126
It was a reputable captain that the Church chartered for Rivyre's journey to Skye, and he even picked her up from a village on the Crystal Coast to avoid all the fuss of a major port. But he swore it wasn't safe to dock anywhere except at Darryl, due to the jagged basalt columns that surrounded many of the isles. "They're hidden under the water, and the more treacherous for it," he said. "I'd like to get us all safe to our destination. The local boatmen'll be much more confident in it to take you to the other isles."
Of course, the sea journey was perilous even without worrying about underwater columns. Rivyre knew that, and kept up with her prayers, especially during the storms that rocked the small ship, the fearful cries of the two other passengers loud enough to penetrate the cabin walls. She had no doubt the Flame would see them to port safely... and it did. It lands them in the harbor at Darryl, the pine-forested slopes reaching out as to embrace them in welcome, the stone buildings and longhouses winding around the shores. The chartered ship slowly moors itself along the dock next to a longboat that is still dropping anchor, itself. And Rivyre is home, back in Skye. It's an eerie feeling, after having been gone a century or more. Darryl is bigger than it was, richer, more buildings, more workshops, and better built. But the layout is essentially the same, the longhouse on the hill perched over the town like a brooding hen over its chicks. There is no presence of the Flame in this town, Rivyre knows. Even after a century, she can tell that this is still the case, for the construction of chapels and shrines to the Flame is distinct, with steeple and chimney.
Syletha leaps ahead of her onto the dock, its brown fur an indistinct blur amongst the early morning dock traffic. A strange icy mist hangs around the water, and most people are going about their business in a hurried, guarded manner, their eyes cast down, shoulders hunched against something more than just the cold. Rivyre doesn't remember it like this, and yet, she herself has changed so much, perhaps Darryl itself has changed less than she imagines. Still, she has a long journey to make, to find someone here who can take her to the flat green isle where her family had settled in the mortal world. Fingering the pouch of gold coins that the Church gave her for her traveling stipend, she looks around the docks, unnerved to see every person obviously, and sometimes even fearfully or aggressively, avoiding her gaze. Is it her Flamekeeper robes that rile them, or is it something else? Perhaps they sense in her that fae world that they fear. Doubt begins to gnaw at her that she will be able to find the accommodations she needs.
Syletha is unworried. In fact, the cat pads to the end of the dock, and turns back to Rivyre, its blue and yellow eyes gazing coolly at her through the early morning mist. Rivyre follows. Perhaps her familiar has another way... it often does. It leads her climbing log steps cut into the low hill, past the great longhouse, over the stone bridge that spans the confluence of two rivers, and around a great clearing in the pine forest. The cat is careful not to set foot in the clearing, slipping through the underbrush around it. Steadfastly, she follows it, tripping over jagged, mutant pine cones that litter the ground, and the enormous fir trees shiver with a strange, pink luminescence. Syletha stops abruptly a short distance north of the clearing, and meows. Right in front of the feline is a faint spot in the air that looks just a little different, like a pocket of bluish mist has gathered there without dissipating. Rivyre peers closerly, and a scintillating emerald curtain flashes into view for a moment, and then becomes imperceptible once more.
It's a door to a fairy road. Old memory surfaces in Rivyre's mind, not just the recent teachings of the Church of the dangers of the Chaos of the Fae realm, but something older, familiar, and it grips her with a fear and revulsion. No, her memories of her heritage are not pleasant. Chaos had its way with her too hard. But she doesn't fear fairy roads, and if Syletha has brought her here, this might be the fastest way to her destination. The Eladrin waits until the flash of emerald appears again, and then she steps into it.
Icy mist and snow drop away to a warm summer afternoon, fields of butterchips lining the quaint and winding path. Rivyre takes a deep breath, and she sets out down the road, Syletha trotting at her side with its tail confidently in the air. The miles are long, and the heat quite oppressive for Rivyre's winter layers.
But she follows the tressym, even when Syletha darts down a strange sideroad that quickly drops the travellers into a deep, zigzagging canyon, the shadowy path chaotic and exhausting, back and forth ad nauseum. Of course it would be faster to just cut across... even clambering over the rocks at the bottom of the canyon doesn't look too hard. But Rivyre knows well the rules of fairy roads, and Syletha is sticking carefully to the path. So does she. A midnight blue sky holds a heavy, red sun, washing pale light over the canyon. The pathway drops down a steep staircase into pitch blackness for about a mile, and then returns under the canyon to the wan red sun. Eventually, Rivyre is too tired to continue, and makes camp, nibbling on some rations and saying her evening prayers. The holy words feel slow and lethargic in her mouth, like they don't want to come out, and the sound of them falls forbiddingly dead as she speaks them, instead of echoing against the canyon walls. Indeed, the canyon walls themselves seem to grow taller and more menancing in response to her invocations. Rivyre notes this, but pushes herself to finish her prayers before she goes to sleep. She sleeps fitfully. There is no difference between day and night here, but eventually she wakes, and continues in Syletha's footsteps.
Rivyre counts it must have been at least two and a half days of travel before Syletha suddenly scrambles up the ravine wall, moving nearly vertically. At first, Rivyre cannot see where the path is... but then she sees it, and knows, somehow, that she can walk on it, despite it being vertical. She walks straight up it, ascending the wall, and steps over the lip of the canyon to find herself suddenly under the eaves of a heavy wood, a ten foot wide chasm at her back, wet snow blanketing the ground everywhere except where the trees cluster the thickest, right around the chasm. Syletha stands before her, and then turns and sits purring, its mismatched eyes blinking slowly and contentedly.
The icy mist is back. They are back in the mortal world. And, eerily, Rivyre realizes, despite having journeyed for days on the fairy road, only a few minutes have passed here since she walked through the emerald curtain in Darryl. A very few. Slowly she walks through the copse of trees, peeking out under the eaves. A great, flat expanse of snow-covered meadow stretches upwards before her, as large as a mountain, only graded and flat, rising steeply. Now she knows where she is. This is the Giant's Lean, the great cliff that overlooks the whole north shore of the Isle of Skye. Her heart leaps as she realizes she will be able to see the green isle where her parents settled. Leaning into the climb, she sets herself to walk up, and up... crunching through the snow, snowflakes whirling in the high air around her, the icy mist clinging to the edges of the great cliff. Syletha scampers along at her side.
Within a few hours, she finally reaches the peak. And here, she sees to her surprise, it appears that a little homestead has been constructed. A few cattle stand in a covered bier, munching on hay covering the ground under the shelter that had likely been stuffed to the rafters at the end of summer. A few sheep stand with them, wooly, soft, round, and bleating. A dog laying by the bier lifts its head, a warning growling starting in its throat. Astonished, Rivyre looks at the animals, and then, naturally, to the humble hut at the edge of the cliff, telltale smoke rising from its chimney...
Vaelorn and Valanthe
February 1, 1126
The icy mist creeping in even to the hallowed and quiet ruins of Eladria tells the scholars everything they need to know. It's the unseason of Vague, which hasn't come in eight years, and it might not last more than a day. Vaelorn unlocks the door to the small, reconstructed library, and after his usual checks to make sure the books and scrolls were not disturbed over the night, he gathers up his papers and writing implements. In his haste, he fumbles a small jar of walnut hull ink. It tumbles merrily to the floor of strange green stone, meticulously cleared of moss. Valanthe, at his side, reaches down helpfully to grab the jar, only to have it leap from the floor under her hand, whisk itself away from her, and settle carefully in a folio floating oddly in midair. Well, not that oddly. If Valanthe could see Vaelorn's Unseen Servant, she might glare daggers at it, but there's nothing to see.
The two then venture across the ravaged beauty of the central courtyard of Eladria. The remains of ornate staircases spiral up into the tops of huge, elegant, branching trees, gently holding homes, walkways, and even waterways and fountains, in their arboreal embrace. Eladria whispers of an alien world, steeped in history and majestic, and it whispers also, that it is all that is left of that world. Vaelorn and Valanthe walk across the green stone paths, between the remnants of strange plants and trellised gardens, a mystical way to a dome of green stone in the heart of the city.
The filtered sunshine breathes only an effervescent glow into the alien city through its canopy roof. The shadow of an unlit place drops over the two as they step across the threshold of the green dome, but worse is the shadow of heartbreak and despair that falls over their hearts. Valanthe has lived only her young years, and yet she still feels the misery of this place. The place of the elves' exodus, a shrine to their exile. Altars, daises, and archways surround a shimmering and bubbling liquid set in a vast pool in the center of the green dome.
Vaelorn knows that eight years ago, the only effect that Vague had on the Elfgates was to churn up the water, boiling it into geometric ripples that filled his mind with an agony of despair so intense that he had to fight back the desire to throw himself into the pool and perish.
Valanthe remembers Vague, of course, that occasional unseason that drifts into the mortal world from fairy. But she was not in Eladria the other times that Vague came. She just remembers having had to shoot down a lot more walking dead than usual. The dark pall over her heart is sobering, and it is one of the reasons why she, and all the other elves, really like to not visit the Elfgates. Those who have lived longer seem to feel it more, but it's still there for her. As a child she wanted nothing to do with this unhappy green dome, and only in her hopefully more sober coming of age might she learn to appreciate what the elves have lost... and the price they have paid.
The two stand and watch as the sunlight slowly warms the icy mist outside. And then something does happen. Something that Vaelorn only saw once before in all his life, nearly 15 years ago. The empty settings in the archways and on the diases surrounding the Elfgates suddenly flare and crackle, as if the energy moving through them that had been short circuited by the removal of their inserts is suddenly trying to leap the space in between, to bridge the gap, as if its lodestone were on the verge of restoring the connection. No, this, this is not to do with Vague. It's something else...
Sascha Von Syndowe
February 1, 1126
There had been a big party in Enniskillen for Brother Feock, and the monks had come off of their island to attend. Of course the locals plied them all with mead (which the monks accepted) and roast wild boar (which they did not, because the monks kept the fasting season all winter). Brother Feock had been sent to Skye during the civil war, and now that the war was over, the Church was asking him back to serve the small chapel in a previously abandoned village on the Crystal Coast near Helburg.
Sascha, running low on funds, and always glad for an opportunity to serve the Church and gain some blessings, of course, had accepted the job of guarding Brother Feock on the Emerald Road to Darryl, where a chartered ship would take him back to the mainland. It wasn't a hard job. The road through the Glens of Vardale was well traveled, the farming families and shepherds that grazed and grew the hilly green fields were well-situated, stable, and friendly, and few tribe skirmishes had happened in that area for the past hundred years. Even the warring clans had no desire to disturb the common grazing rights and breadbasket of the Isle. Still, it was a week's journey at an easy pace, and Sascha was happy to keep a lookout for Brother Feock with her sword and courser at ready for any trouble.
They didn't have any trouble, though. Not on the road, nor in the port town. The weather wasn't even that bad, although a gloomy sky and cold wind accompanied their arrival in Darryl. Though Darryl isn't a town where the Sacred Flame is popular, it's enough of a trade city to offer safe lodgings for any traveller, regardless of affiliation, at least until you start to stir things up. Brother Feock booked a room in a cozy stone inn and Sascha took herself to a local meadhall to hear some stories. Mostly a bad lot of boar hunting yarns, cautionary tales of fairy vengeance on a family that forgot to leave a proper offering, a few complaints about the weather, and a whole lot of boring talk about where there was still forage for the sheep at this time of year.
Brother Feock has to wait a few days for the chartered ship to arrive, but the morning it does, an icy mist is hanging over the harbor, the snow-coated hills and pine trees huddled as if watching and waiting. The whole tone of the town has changed, even as the dawn begins to break, there are less people out than usual on the docks, and those that are there move quickly, avoiding eye contact even with neighbors they would usually greet. Sascha joins Brother Feock for his morning prayers to help quell her uneasiness, but then she goes to the stables to saddle her warhorse and ride out as she does every morning to see if the ship has arrived.
Two ships come in, this morning. One is an Elyrian vessel--hopefully, that's the charter--and one a Lochlann longship, both pulling into the docks at nearly the same time. Sascha sees a Flamekeeper disembark from the Elyrian ship, and soon after, disappear into the town. The longship takes longer to unload. It looks like a crew of raiders, honestly--burly warriors well dressed in caps and furs and lashed leather boots lined with fur. They shout and roar as they clamber off of the longship, spitting on the docks, the spittle freezing before it hits. Sascha can't hear what they're saying from the distance she's at, but they're behaving awfully excitedly, grabbing dock workers and gesturing towards the boat. Slowly, at the warriors' urging, a crowd begins to gather at the dock.
With heavy step, a figure in a cloak of bearskin steps out of the longship. He holds in his bare hands something that immediately startles the senses and draws the attention, making you look twice, more intrigued than you really should be, without being able to tell why. It's a rock, a crystal, suffused with an octarine glow, and while its crystalline shape is nothing special on its own, there is something alarming about it. The crowd on the dock is clearly riveted, they all stand in a semi-circle, not moving, as the bearskin-robed man---it's one of the Druids, Sascha realizes---lifts up the glowing, violet crystal. He shouts something that Sascha can't hear, and the crowd immediately animates, shouting, waving, whether cheering him on, or protesting, Sascha can't really tell. Part of the crowd surges forward, but part of it backpedals, people pulling at each other almost fearfully.
The Druid walks forward, holding up the crystal, and Sascha nearly forgets her duty, seated on her horse away up the hill from the docks, as a strange feeling of forboding washes over her.
Taking in the scene before her, Rivyre doesn't remember anyone living in this part of Isles when she was a child. Not wanting to further anger the dog she backs way slowly careful not to provoke him further. She looks to the smoke rising from the hut on the cliff. She beckons Syletha to follow her as she makes her way toward the smoke while keeping an eye out for any hidden dangers. (Dice Maiden Perception Check + Guidance @ 6:10pm= 16)
Sascha wasn't especially devout. She believed, certainly, and she had been instilled with the proper socially acceptable respect for the Sacred Flame. Naturally she was willing to assist Feock in his journey, and to ensure his safety until he could board his chartered ship. She'd felt a little odd about the arrangement despite herself. The faith's expansion here threatened the elvish culture she'd so admired all her life, and especially since her arrival here. Still it was better to keep her reservations to herself. The noble, travelling cloak pulled tight against the misty air, urged her horse to walk down toward ships, toward the bearskin-clad man and his strange stone. She'd never seen it herself, but she'd heard the news as a child, when it was first making its way throughout the noble courts of Westemär. Was this Delereum?
Sascha's movement into the crowd was hesitant at first. but she had a sword at her hip and her mount below her. She was a soldier as much as she was a noblewoman. if this situation did escalate she was confident in her own safety. Feock however, was safer waiting behind, and she was glad the man hadn't accompanied her in this moment..The Monk would only be in danger in this impassion crowd lead by a Druid, even without him brandishing cursed stone.
Sascha simply drew in closer, trying to understand the situation that was afoot. Her eyes were fixed on the man in the bearskin cloak above all else.
Thunk....thunk....thunk...
Angus wipes the sweat from his brow as he sets down his axe. Despite the icy fog, Angus has gone to restock on firewood, chopping down select trees form the nearby forest at the base of the cliff. He loads up the fallen timber, dons his thick, hide cloak, and begins his trek through the crisp snow back up to his home in Giant's Lean. Once within earshot of his surprise guest, he lets out a high-pitched whistle to signal to his faithful hound, Timber, that he has company.
"O! Hello there traveler! Come to visit the blade 'ave ya? Was busy runnin' some errands but I can give ya the tour!"
"If it's to ya likin' you go on inside. I'll be in shortly, once this firewood's sorted out."
The once snarling hound ceases its aggression at the sound of his master voice and begins to trot, with tail wagging, past the robed individual and pushes his way into hut, leaving the door swung open wide. The interior of the rather small cabin is moderately decorated with animal pelt rugs and blankets strewn across the rough-hewn but smooth wooden furniture. Upon the mantle is a small collection of hand-carved totems resembling the various shrines to the Old Gods one might see across the settlements of the Northfolk. Some are carved from various woods, some clay, others worked animal bones, all very delicate with details and rather small in stature. Among the walls are more fur coats, serving as coverings for the sparce windows, and wool and linen tapestries depicting histories or various sorts. Mostly of conflict and ancient myths or folklore.
The large man's voice can still be heard from the other side of the cabin:
"The fire inside should still be burnin', and if that don't warm ya up, i can get a stew goin'."
Alorin pauses, his breath catching for a moment, as he considers the pellet lying on the path amidst roots and fallen leaves and nuts. He briefly looks it over, seeking to ensure that the true content of the message was in the vision he received, and that there was nothing more to the pellet than a mere signature on the message. (Perception Roll: 25)
For a heartbeat, he considers picking it up, just in case. However, years of caution from walking the faerie roads, and especially his memories of a mischievous goblin prankster, flit through his mind, causing a smirk to cross his lips. With a resolute shake of his head, he decides to leave the pellet undisturbed. Instead, he gestures for Ellynel, his loyal Seelie hound, to follow, urgency propelling him forward along the winding path of Buttercup Lane.
As they move, Alorin’s heart aches with the weight of his past. He knows, all too well, the agony of losing a family, the void that such loss carves into one’s soul. He can hardly fathom what kind of father could abandon his own child. Such a person does not deserve to be called a father, he thinks bitterly, but he quickly shakes off the thought. Now is not the time for such musings. “You know, as well as I, El,” he murmurs in Sylvan, his voice low and steady, “a babe is no quarry to be hunted, no prize to be won.” She nods in understanding, a brief flicker of pain and resolution crossing her face, much like the memory of a painful event that led to a wonderful outcome passing through her mind.
Together, they quicken their pace down Buttercup Lane, where the vibrant buttercups sway gently in a phantom breeze, their golden faces turned towards the dense canopy above. The path winds through the towering beech trees, their branches casting long shadows that dance ominously over the roots that cover the ground. Alorin knows that the true race will not be won on the fairy roads, but at the Emerald Door, where the veil between realms thins and time itself feels elastic. Yet, the urgency driving them forward keeps them from slowing, a primal instinct urging them onward.
A low growl rumbles deep in Ellynel’s throat as they press on, the sound resonating with the quiet tension in the air. Alorin’s fingers tighten around the hilts of his weapons, ready for whatever dangers may lurk in the shadows. They have an infant to save from the relentless pursuit of the Hunt, and a mystery to unravel that speaks of change on the horizon.
Valanthe Autumnfall
Valanthe gasps at the energy pulsing through the Elfgates and looks Vaelorn, then back to the crackling archways, and finally back to her elder hoping for a glimmer of a reaction so she knows how to respond. "That's not supposed to happen, right? I mean... that's not normal, Vaelorn - what should I do?" she asks as she shifts nervously on the spot.
Vaelorn
For his part, the elder of the two at the Elfgates was pulling out a piece of paper and quill, taking notes and listing anything he can think of in the moment for what could be restarting those energies, "No, it isn't normal, I've seen this once, around fifteen years ago. As for what to do, I'm not sure what to expect here, this is very odd." he looks back to his notes, checking if he's missed anything, any detail he could add(perception check:13) and decides he's satisfied for now with the notes, "I do think we should bring this up to the queen, but I don't know how long this will be flaring up as it is." his curiosity keeping him from moving away, or even towards the gates, nervous of what this could mean, but also very intrigued, as if the Elfgates could be restored, there is much of their history that could be brought to light, but guidance to the younger Valanthe, he sadly wasn't in much of a pace to offer, twisted as his thoughts are in this moment.
Rivyre lowers her guard w/ the dog being called off, but pleasantly surprised by this burly man's polite demeanor. Seeing no threat posed, she & Syletha make their way down & walk into the hut. Once in earshot of the man behind the hut she says,
"Take your time kind sir. I'm in no rush."
"I'm not going to be able to get you to leave that spot willingly when we're finished here am I?"
She's impressed w/ the carved totems & tapestries that make up this hut. This man is quite the craftsman, & is happy to see that worship of the Old Gods has not waned even w/ the Faith moving in on Skye..., much to her disapproval of the Sacred Flames political goals.
Rivyre is curious if this man knows anything not widely known.
Sascha von Syndowe
Sascha's horse picks its way down the hill to the docks, and steps briskly onto the slick boards, a cloud of steam puffing from its nostrils. The crowd that is gathering quickly gives way before the warhorse's size and intimidating presence. Sascha is able to easily get onto the docks and within earshot of the Druid holding the strange, glowing crystal. The faces of the people gathered, are well-wrapped in scarves and furs, sometimes only their eyes peering out, a tinge of frost on eyebrows and eyelashes. At first, the Druid's words sound strange to her, but then she realizes he is in fact speaking Median, or Common as it sometimes called, if with a heavy accent and in a bit of a dialect.
"Now with the portent of the unseason of Vague coming this first Colly of the Deep Winter shows that our spoils were destined for the glory of Kromac, which Morrigan has prepared our altar for." He looks down at the glowing rock cradled in the palms of his hands. "Kromac gave us victory. I will offer this magical stone back to him, at the sacrifice tonight. Now, my warriors crowned with spoils!" He raises his head, looking with eyes that are unnaturally piercing around the crowd. The fur-clad warriors that had disembarked from the longship, intermixed now with the gathering crowd, lean forward in silent anticipation, their breath steaming in the freezing air. "Take your feasting today, but respect the Witch; set no foot near the burial mounds. For Kromac!"
"For Kromac!" the warriors, and most of the crowd that has gathered, roar. Battleaxes, torches, clubs, pendants of wolves' teeth, a few skulls--it is a dizzying mishmash of items that the crowd holds up high in their exaltation.
The enthusiastic crowd presses forward, but behind the docks on the pathways leading up the hill, Sascha can see others, the ones who had not opted to join the crowd, running quickly up the steps and the window trackways to homes and workshops, making superstitious gestures against the evils of Fairy as they stumble through the icy mist.
Rivyre Lightdove and Angus Mac Lochlann
Rivyre has heard the tales of the Sword of Nuada, indeed she has heard several different tales. Most of them ascribe the sword's forging from the foundation of the earth by Gaibhne as a gift for his daughter Nuada in the fight against evil. Some tales talk about the martyrdom of Nuada and say that angels placed her sword in a stone to wait for her to be reborn and claim it, and none but her reincarnation will be able to remove it. Others say that it isn't Nuada's reincarnation, for she has never died, but a warrior chosen by her to fight against evil who will eventually be able to remove it. Other tales say that the blade is of Fey make and is a key to open the door between the realms, and the fey lords watch it from their own realm, waiting for the day that a mortal figures out its curse and removes it, at which point the gates to Faerie will be flung wide, and the whole Isle of Skye will come under their dominion. Still other stories, in a variant on the key tale, say that it was used by Sorcerer-Queen Kaestelaria VIII to lock the fey out of the mortal world after they had decimated her armies. Others say that the royal line of Westemar died with the sorcerer-kings, that even the von Drakkens were usurpers, and one day a true king will be born, and he will be known because he pulls the sword from the stone. There is just one other obscure legend that had caught Rivyre's attention, and that is that the true king can only be one whose lineage is completely untouched by arcane magic or any eldritch pact among its ancestors.
Only one or two very pedantic history books on the Isles of Skye at Altbruke had even mentioned the legend. One of them had recounted the dizzying array of variants of the tale, in clear disbelief of all of them, since apparently, the Sword had been there nearly as long as the Elves had. Being from Skye herself, Rivyre had dug deeper into the library than probably anyone else ever had on the topic of her homeland, but there was nothing conclusive to be found about this Sword. The only other possible source of information Rivyre can think of that might know more, would be the Amethyst Academy, but they keep their research, writings, and theories to themselves.
Syletha twitches her tail and blinks slowly at the Eladrin seated next to her. A smooth purr starts up from her throat as Rivyre scritches her ears.
Alorin Vonsin
As Alorin peers closely at the owl pellet, the fur and bones within it start to suddenly tremble. Alorin's instincts are well-honed enough to back away from the object just before it explodes in a small swarm of disturbingly reconstituted rats, some of them missing scraps of hide, or a tail, and all of them missing softer bits like ears and eyeballs. They scamper off the path, squeaking defiantly, and disappear into the roots of the beech trees. The pellet is gone in a cloud of putrid dust, but the two playing dice remain sitting there, laying flat on the road now. Of the sides of the dice that face upwards, one has three delicately carved pips, and the other has two.
Alorin decides it is wise not to touch the dice. Ellynell keeps easy pace with him, and as they travel, not hurrying to the point of exhaustion, but neither dallying, the Seelie dog's ears prick in the direction of the distant baying of fey hounds. At first, it is behind them. A few hours of travel later, it seems to be in front of them. And still the golden buttercups dance in the lazy afternoon. Alorin is confident in his knowledge that however much the road winds or what they see on it, it will end at the Emerald Door, and that is where he needs to be right now.
Ahead of them on the road, a huge tree leans over the path, leaning its branches heavily. They are laden with what looks like ripe, succulent peaches, of a soft, warm, summery color. The leaves and bark are wrong for a peach tree, nor is it the usual beech or hazel. Ellynell, without slowing her pace, lifts her head to sniff the air, the syrupy ripe smell of the fruit assaulting both of their senses.
Vaelorn and Valanthe
Vaelorn has his quill at the ready to record what he's observing, but as quickly as the strange phenomenon began, the sparks fade, and the gates return to normal. Then, like a wave rearing up and crashing on a still shore after having drawn far back with the tide, a terrible grief and foreboding floods the two elves as they stand there. The arcane water of the pool ripples and churns.
Drink the water, and you will live forever. Won't that be a blessing? It's not quite a voice, but more a mocking thought, that pushes itself into both of their minds. They seem to hear echoing laughter that ripples in the same rhythm as the pool...
(Both of you please make a Wisdom saving throw)
Moz Crowthorn
Listening to the horn and hounds in the distance and encroaching darkness Moz grins. Well, if it's a race they want.... then I better start figuring out a way to cheat. " Iago! Get your skinny butt out here, I need your eyes." There is a shimmer in the air as the small imp appears. Flapping his wings, the Imp settles on a branch and begins to idly inspect one of his claws. "So a child, nice to see some people still respect the old ways. What's the plan?"
" Not sure yet just playing it by ear. For now stay out of sight and keep your eyes open." His short legs pumping at he walks into the darkness. Iago flaps his wings and lands on Moz's shoulder. Tilting his head toward the noise "The Hunt has already begin. I wonder who is leading it? I hope it's not that prig Oberon, can't stand that guy. All his thees and thous and for such with....." Moz's blackouts the Imp's complaining, focusing on his bond with Iago he opens his senses to the Imp's. Moz's Eye flash red in the magical darkness (Call on my bond to access the Imp's senses and his Devil Sight ability)
"You know with this racket they are making, everyone and their dog will be going for that baby, and you know who I mean by that." Moz's laughs and grins wickedly "Alorin, I do hope so. I owe him one from last time, plus he might be of some use if it's a three way tie." "What about the child? Alorin isn't going to just let you take the child." "Well we will just have to burn that bridge when we get there." The pair plunge further into the darkness covered road toward the Emerald Door.
After a few minutes of the hearth crackling, Angus squeezes through the door and settles into one of the hewn chairs. He takes a quick glance at his robed guest and attempts to place its design. (Religion Check: 19)
"Good mornin' to ya, lassie. The name's Angus Lochlan, of clan Lochlan, and I am the steward and groundskeeper of this relic of the Old Gods."
"So... what brings you to my humble abode on this frigid morn? I have a feelin' that you arn't here for the same reasons as prior visitors, just by the look of ya."
Angus recollects on his past guests. Most are followers of the Old Ways, embarking on a pilgrimage to pay their respects and earn favor with Nuada, are sharp-witted, nimble, traveling blades, or are like Angus and seek to test their might in battle. He appreciates a good duel, but followers of the new faiths are few and far between.
"A pleasure to meet you Angus. I'm Rivyre Lightdove. (*she chuckles) Yes, I suppose my robes do make it rather obvious I am not a usual visitor. I am a Flamekeeper of the Sacred Flame. In truth, I was just passing through Giant's Lean on my way home to Almorra."
(Rivyre pauses for a moment)
"Last I remember, the Sword of Nuada had no steward. I've always wanted to see the sword at least once in my life, it's just my parents never took me. However, they did tell me the various legends of the the Old Gods & they made many offerings & prayers to Dian Cheht, the Healer when I was a child."
(Rivyre continues)
"So what made you decide to become steward to the Sword of Nuada? I respect anyone who takes up such a noble cause & be true to their faith & beliefs."