Sascha Von Syndowe

Solis tosses his head eagerly, and as Sascha gives him rein, he thunders off, clattering across the docks and pounding straight up the rocky, pine-clad hill, ignoring the twist and weave of the wandering dirt road that leads up to the great longhouse perched on its summit. Sascha guides him expertly around the trees and low-hanging branches, finding the fastest route straight up. And just in time, too. The heavy drumbeats and chanting is faint beyond the blood rushing in her ears and the pounding of the courser's hooves, but she can see them along the road, the winding road that she is shortcutting, and she reaches the summit, Solis vaulting up over the tiered edge of the hill into the flat, partially cleared ridge where the great longhouse nestles, at almost exactly the same time the fearful Druid in his bearskin cloak steps onto it himself.

He barely gives her a glance, but continues to follow the road, as it starts to wind around the longhouse and behind it, to head for the bridge over the confluence of the two rivers. Sascha pulls Solis around and gallops around the other side of the longhouse. The horse stretches his neck long and low, flying over the ground, making the round of the winding path on the other side, snow scattering from under his hooves. And then Sascha sees it---the bridge! The river is frozen--right in the center of it the thin vents creak darkly, the rush of river water roaring faintly underneath their protective roof of ice. The bridge itself is built of wood, wooden piles driven heavily into the ground and wooden planks spanning the length. Icicles drip from the wooden parapets, still and silent in the frozen early morning air.

Solis leaps right up to the foot of the bridge, snorting, and Sascha turns him around to face the road oncoming. The chanting grows louder and more frantic, the thumping of the drums increasing their pace. Sascha waits, and Solis stands quivering, frothing at the bit, seemingly as on edge as she is about this encounter.

It seems like an eternity, but then the procession appears. The Druid of Kromac is wrapped in his bear skin robes, a cap of pelt twisted over with antlers and strung on leather thongs with beads of bones covering his head and given him a terribly feral look. In his bare hands, steaming with a strange heat, he holds the glowing, octarine crystal. His eyes meet Sascha's, and a kind of fury roils from his gaze to hers.

Solis neighs furiously at the sight, and paws at the air. Sascha can feel his muscles tensing underneath her.

Rivyre looks around & see Syletha is growing impatient & seems quite determined to continue along the present path. She notices Angus looks confident as well. Rivyre has some hesitancy, but she definitely does not want to risk encountering another hoard of ghouls, & Syletha has never led her astray before. 
She turns back to Angus & his pets, "Sorry, for the delay I was just conferring w/ Syletha for a moment. We can continue onward, just keep an eye out for anything unusual."
Rivyre gives Syletha a quick pet & an other telepathic message, "Ok, girl. I trust you. You've never lead me astray before & I know you'll keep us safe. Lead on!"

Alorin Vonsin and Moz Crowthorn

The Hunt - Round 6

Moz begins backing up towards the Emerald door, holding the fake baby to his chest. Iago remains perched on his shoulder, his barbed tail dangling over the bundle.
Looking at the annoyed Huntsman. "Look, bubby, maybe we got off on the wrong foot. Let's not get hung up on who killed who's horse... and minions..... and hounds..... and who might have embarrassed who.... all of those are you by the way." Still backing toward the portal. Carefully he hands the bundle of clothes to Iago. "Tell you what how about a fresh start... I know just the thing." He says snapping his fingers "A joke." He grins as he summons the arcane energies into his words. "What did the deer tell the hunter........ Buck Off!" With the final words the arcane energy is released at the Huntsman.

The Huntsman just gives him a deadpan glare. "It will be far more entertaining when you go home to your own master.... empty-handed." The Huntsman fires his longbow after the goblin's backpedaling retreat. The arrow goes wide, but he quickly snaps off another--this one strikes home squarely.

Squealing in pain from the arrow Moz telepathically says to Iago "Dirty @$&*& cheap #%^^ &^%##$* fey. Iago get to the portal and get him to follow you. Be yourself." A wicked grin spreads across the Imp's face. Gathering the bundle in his arms, Iago looks at the Huntsman. "You lose @%^$$, enjoy the rest of existence as a dog, humping your Master's leg!" He then gives the Huntsman what is widely considered the rudest of hand gestures in the Feywilds and with a flap of his wings he takes off for the Emerald Door.

Alorin attacks the shadow looming over him with his blades, and the energy of his attack seems to scatter the misty tendrils far and wide, until only a few are left, drifting weakly over the snow. Alorin then turns and runs to the southeast, ducking behind a tree to maintain cover from the Huntsman and break line of sight with the Shadow.

The few remaining misty tendrils of the shadow start to follow after Alorin... but stop at the hollow old stump that is in its path towards him. The icy mist trickles inside the stump, and the stark wail of a human infant splits the stillness of the snowy forest.

El pricks her ears hearing the baby's cry, and turning, runs back to the baby. Teeth bared, she bites at the awful misty tendrils. The mist slips through the purchase of her teeth, and leaning into the hollow stump, she picks up the infant in her jaws, and abruptly disappears in a shadowy mist of her own. She reappears forty feet to the south with the crying baby in her jaws, and ducks behind a tree.

Sascha Von Syndowe

As Sascha's eyes meet the fury of the Druid's gaze, a new sound pierces through her awareness. The sharp cry of a human infant, a baby lost and cold with no one to comfort it, sounds faintly from somewhere behind her in the woods on the way to Kromac's clearing. Her heart leaps into her throat. Has the unholy sacrifice already begun?

Angus Mac Lochlann and Rivyre Lightdove

Syletha purrs, and then darts forward along the relentlessly straight ice road. The frozen wasteland that flanks it on all sides howls, the cold wind pelting with stinging sleet. Beef trots after Syletha, the sled running easily along the slick, ice road. Angus, Rivyre, and Timber, noting the ease with which the sled travels, climb onto it, and at once, Beef is able to pick up her speed, lumbering after the cat, who runs still faster. The howling wind chases after them as the wasteland whips by on either side.

After several minutes, the stinging sleet begins to turn into a raging blizzard, with thick, blinding flakes that the wind dumps on the sled, dumps on the road. Syletha runs over the top of the drifts, and Beef plows through them, forced to slow as she pushes her way through the rapidly mounting drifts that are beginning to cover the ice road. Angus straightens to look closely--the edges of the road are becoming very hard to see. But his practiced eye picks out the edges, and he shouts to Beef, who follows his command to left and right, and then, splaying her hooves, clambers up and on top of the piling drifts. The straight tracks of the sled cut long furrows through the drifts as she trots along the top of them. Angus and Rivyre hunker down, wrapping furs and cloaks around themselves tightly as the mind-numbing cold begins to eat into their bones.

Finally, they see a pair of towering pillars, made of glistening ice, flanking the road on either side. Syletha runs through it and disappears. Beef follows, and as the sled slips through between the pillars, the frozen wasteland falls away, and Beef finds herself standing on a sloping ridge, surrounded by trees, that dips downwards a swampy region of frozen puddles and stiff tussocks peeking out through the ice. The marshy breaklands soon spread out into an enormous lake that stretches far out to the horizon.

Beef turns her head to look to the other side of the ridge, behind the sled through the two ice pillars that are, oddly, still there, five feet apart. But beyond those pillars, a breathtaking sight greets them. A thick grove of trees, still green under their tops and seemingly unaffected by the freeze of the winter, form a trellis shrouded by a gentle mist, like the clean-smelling outbreath of a thousand trees, and winding into their concealed depths is a path, paved with green stone.

The clinging, frozen mist of Vague that had haunted the woods they left, and haunted the docks back in Darryl, is gone... not a trace of it remains. Not over the lake, under the ridge, or in the seemingly enchanted forest. As they look around, a freezing rain begins to fall, pattering on Beef's thick fluffy coat and stinging Angus and Rivyre's faces. Now the real question is---where are they, and how much time passed while they traveled the fairy roads?

Syletha leaps onto one of the runners of the sled, and sits primly, washing one paw with her tongue and scrubbing it over her face.

Rivyre hobbles off the sled Beef was pulling, shakes her cloak, & body trying to get some matter of warmth back into her body. She looks for a nearby tree to take some cover from the freezing rain further upsetting the cold bite of the blizzard when crossing that frozen road in the Fae Realm. Looking around though..., this is not where she entered the Fairy Road the first time. Rivyre knows a little the passage of time in the Fae Realm is an enigma. It could be hours, days, or even years will pass in the Material Realm when you return.
Looking around seeing no ocean, no sight of the great longhouse, no stone bridge that spanned the rivers, or those strange pink luminecsent fir trees, & defintely the absence of the thick fog & mist that hovered in the sky when the ship made port. No small amount of time has passed. All that she is aware of is that everyone has come out more inland. No longer north on the cliffs edge of Giant's Lean across from Almorra, but not south enough to see the docks at Darryl.

She looks over back at Angus, Beef, & Timber to see how they weathered the blizzard preparing to assist any of them as needed & the now freezing rain that is drizziling this part of the island. "Get out of the rain & come under this tree. It's not perfect shelter, but it's better than nothing. I don't know where we are exactly per se, & if my mental map is correct, we did not travel as far southeast where Syletha & I first entered the Fairy Road in Darryl. Although I am also curious as to how much time has passed too. Time passes differently when travelling between the Fae & Material worlds, as you can see by the absence of the fog & mist when we started."
"Angus..., care to wager a guess as to approximately where we are?"

"Hmmm...marshy swamp followed by an enormous green forest surrounding the largest lake on the island? I think we might be in elven territory. Though I'm not sure which side of the lake we are."

Angus scouts the land for a fallen tree limb and begins preparing a fire with it, to warm the group.

"And if we are in Eladria, then they might know where your family has been. I've not interacted with them much but I k ow they are a refuge for your people."

Nature check: 14 +1 = 15 total, to discern our location

"Once we warm up, I think we should follow those green paving stones. We'll either run into some elves or some Northfolk."

Rivyre looks at Angus, "Well you seem much more comfortable w/ overland travel, so i'll leave that in your very capable hands when we're ready to move out. Having been thinking on it, I do beleiev I need to think more like my family would & not like I would. They probably would have more likely sought refuge w/ their fellow elves in Eladria & not the Faith in Enniskillen." 

Rivyre takes a seat by the log rubbing her hands together & blowing on them trying to warm them up while Angus is preparing for a fire "So, can you tell me more about the Lochlan Clan? I meant to ask you earlier at your home in Giant's Lean. The basics I know from the available history books in Altbruke your people mainly worship the Old God Kromac, the Sacred Flame has no presence & is definitely "NOT" welcome there. Your clan is very traditionalist, unlike like Blythway's who seem to embrace the development & advancement of their people. Religion & philosophy, architecture, & many other things from the mainland."
Rivyre belts w/ a profound exertion, "Fire burn it look at me! I'm a Fae Elf cleric of the Sacred Flame. If that's not the optiomy of irony..., I don't know what is!" Rivyre chuckles.
Is that pride or frustration? Perhaps a bit of both...? It's hard to determine just how Rivyre truly really feels about it.

Rivyre pauses for a moment & continues, "But, this has been a burning question in my mind for quite some time. When I identified myself as a cleric of the Flame when we first met, I fully expected to be attacked on sight..., & you didn't. You've been a most honorable & welcoming man. Your people could learn much from you & your acceptance of people for who they are. Are you seen as outsider among your fellow clansman, & how do they treat you?"

Thamno looks around the room, gauging the responses and hearing out the queen. He then leans forward a bit and says:
"To be honest, I have no great affinity for the Amethyst Academy; though I owe them a debt of gratitude. If I have a hole in my boot, I will visit the cobbler. And in cases of magical holes in the fabric of our reality, we might consider going to visit the academy mages that exist here. They are reclusive, but not unfriendly to those who come prepared and I am sure they will have some light to shed on the situation. In the meantime we might send word to other people we know across the world. Maybe Skye was not the only place to be affected by this event?"

Valanthe Autumnfall

Clearing her throat, Valanthe adjusts her posture and stands tall to address her mother confidently and formally:

“Your Majesty, I volunteer to investigate the human ports. I believe my skills are certainly better suited to interact with the northern tribes than they are with the Amethyst Academy, that is.” 

The idea of visiting that tower of the Amethyst Academy’s so soon after experiencing the dread at the gates gave Valenthe the shivers. The docks with their earthy people feel more grounded and less strange.  But a moment of doubt creeps across her face as if suddenly hearing what she just said:

“I mean, if the council wishes it. And if Vaelorn is ok with me going…?” her voice trailing off as her eyes dart from elf to elf, trying to gauge how well - or not - her announcement has been received.

Thamno, Vaelorn, and Valanthe

Queen Genevieve nods sternly. "You make a wise point, Thamno. All of these things it would be well for us to do without delay. Lord Siannodel, since it is your wish to inquire of the Academy,  let that be your task today. Start by Sending a message to Grandmaster Delilah, and then if there is need, you may pay a visit to Starspire Observatory. I would like to rule out any... Academy activity that could have caused this."

"Maiatha, of all of us you know best Alnorra's Isle and the cursed creatures that live there. Scry one of them, and see what you may discern." The female Council member in the pink robe bows.

"Paelias, I leave it to you to Send messages to our brethren in Westemar. See what they know." Queen Genevieve then turns to her daughter, with a gentle smile. "And Valanthe, my dear. You may of course go to the ports to investigate, but not alone. I should like Vaelorn to accompany you, if you do go. And, if he is willing, our wise companion Thamno. He has many dealings with the Northfolk clans and the human people of Skye. I shall have Siannodel take you there tomorrow, once we have gathered information today from other sources."

Paelias, Siannodel, and Maiatha bow once more to their queen in acknowledgement of their tasks. "Council adjourned," Siannodel says. "Let us get to work."

Alorin, Moz, and Sascha

The Hunt - Round 7

Sascha's eyes locked with the druid, although as the sound of a crying infant reached her ears she made a snap decision - She raised the signal, lifting up the horn and blowing a blast on it, before rearing Solis into action, galloping toward the grove and the crying infant - she drew her bow, deftly nocking an arrow as the horse surges toward the grove. The noblewoman's eyes survey the area around her, as she prepares to fire on whatever target presents itself.

Solis spins and gallops over the bridge, into the forest of towering fir trees, dodging and plunging around the trunks. A pink shimmer drizzles around the trees, as Sascha casts her gaze around for a target. The infant's wails pierce the air, and she sees the babe--clutched in the jaws of a lithe hound with a fey look to it. The dog's jaws grip the swaddling of the baby, as if carrying it, and it does not look to be hurting it. Sascha feels a chill as her eyes pass over a strange, shadowy spot in the mist and she realizes that this is some kind of an abomination... an undead spirit. Sascha has found her target - she looses an arrow toward the patch of roiling darkness, determined to return this monstrocity to the shadowlands from whence it came.

The arrow flies from Sascha's bow and strikes the horrible shadow, and it dissipates as if it never were.

Hearing the horn sound in the distance, Moz looks to the Huntsman. "Sounds like more of those pesky humans are incoming." Looking towards the Emerald Door, "Maybe you can catch up to Iago or join the mortals chasing after the 'Baby'. Anyway you swing it I should get a good laugh out of it." He then mockingly mimes tipping a hat to the Huntsman, "Till next time, it has been a pleasure." Moz then runs towards the Emerald Door and with only a feet to go he tries to dodge around the Door and into the trees. As he runs, just before he reaches the Door, he trips headlong, sprawling into it. Or seemingly. Actually, he somersaults just to the side and ends up flat on his belly on the other side of it. He stays still.

Alorin, well hidden for the moment, pulls out a sprig of mistletoe from one of his pockets, mutters a few syllables under his breath, lifts his palm through the mild mist, as if lifting it up, and pushes it onto his own chest. The shimmering mist appears to briefly swirl around Alorin, as if they are being sucked into him, and his wounds heal.

He then turns around and rushes to where El is, and attempts to soothe the infant and stop its crying. He gives a brief nod of thanks to the warrior on horseback who killed the shadow, but maneuvers quickly behind a tree to stay out of sight of the Huntsman as much as he can. The baby in its swaddle continues to cry, but turns its scrunched up little face towards Alorin, staring at him with newborn eyes that can't focus yet. The baby's nose and around its lips is beginning to turn blue.

As the baby's cry pierces the air, the Huntsman freezes, a green spark flaring in his eyes, his attention immediately diverted from the clumsy goblin. Turning from the Emerald Door, he disappears into the shadows, reappearing thirty feet to the south, and dashes back towards the infant. The speed he covers is alarming as he bears straight down on Alorin taking the baby from El and holding it close in his arms.

Passing through the Emerald Door, Iago shimmers and turns invisible again. He then makes a quick U-turn and exits back through the Emerald Door.

Entering back into the clearing he immediately flys up above the Door and surveys the situation. "Did it work, Boss, did the dummy fall for it?" He tires to telepathically say to Moz but receives no response. "Boss? Boss!" Looking around the clearing he sees the frozen corpses of the goblins and hounds covered in a light dusting of fresh snow. In the distance he can see the charred remains of the Druid's hut. Looking back at the Emerald Door, being a creature of the Fey he realizes what has happened. "Bloody Fey bulls@#%. I wonder if Boss is still alive? Ohh maybe I will get a new one that is taller." The Imp says to himself as he turns around and flies back toward the the Emerald Door. "This will be the 5th one if he died. The Master is not going to be happy about this."

With the Huntsman bearing down on them, Alorin hurriedly hands the baby back to El, who takes it in her jaws and dashes 80 ft northwest towards the Emerald Door, flying past the Huntsman and ducking in between the trees to keep out of the line of attack from any arrows.

To the south, the beat of drums and a clammer of frenzied voices begins to filter through the mist.

"Well... Clan Lochlan has always followed the Old Gods, not just Kromac, but Nuada, Danu, and Nodens. We believe that the Old Gods still watch over us influence the world." Angus says as he readies the fire.

"Hmm... what else? Oh! We often- or rather, they, often raid the mainland. Oh! One thing to note. Unlike the Flame, most folk do not consider the Old Faith to be a singular religion at all. Some follow a singular power, others all. Most folk acknowledge most powers though, me included. Also included among those I acknowledge is the Flame. I see the Flame as another force in or above the world."

Angus takes off his collection of totems and ponders them. 

"But am I an outsider to my people? I've not been exiled or banished nor held in high regard, aside from tending to Giant's Lean. Most traders in Daryll have mistaken me for Blythway and get confused by my traditional Lochlan garments. Though I'm not quite Blythway either, more like a mix of both clans. I spent a good deal of my youth in both Daryll and Enniskillen and as such, aren't quite either. But my blood is Lochlan, as is my name. I think the truth of the Flame and the 'Old' Gods lie somewhere in the middle."

Rivyre sits listening w/ intent & attentiveness..., then responds, "Most interesting. I respect your open-mindedness toward the Flame seeing it as in or above & that the 'truth' of both religions meets in the middle. Neither one is above the other if i'm interpreting your words correctly." She pauses briefly, "To spend so much time w/ the both your clan & the Blythway's I believe has enlightened your view of the world w/ temperance & understanding."

Rivyre smiles w/ excitement, "I think you should be held in more regard w/ your clan & the Blythway's. I see you can be more than just a warrior & seeker to be Nuada's Champion. Have you considered expanding your horizions to be philospher or poet? You have the foundation to be more than you seek & perhaps end the conflict between the Blythway's & the Lochlan's. If the clans were to unite, you could start a cultural rebirth & renaissance for all the Northfolk here on Skye. It's an enticing & intriguing thought don't you think?"

Alorin, Moz, and Sascha

The Hunt - Round 8

Hearing the sounds of voices and chanting. Sascha nocks another arrow, readying herself to attack any follower of Kromac that means her, the infant, or its apparent protector any harm.

Picking himself out of the snow and dusting the snow off, Moz looks back toward the Huntsman moving on Alorin. "Damn, none of my clever hijinks are working today. They were probaly too clever, that's why they didn't work, ya that's it they went over his head," he mutters to himself. Looking at the portal, "Iago? you there?" He sends out the thought, but receives no response. "Great... just great, he is off gooofing around and I get to deal with a pissed Fey huntsman and a forest full of mortals.." He turns and starts trudging through the snow back toward Alorin and Huntsman. Looking down at his green hands he stops for a moment "Hmmm humans get a little stabby when they see green better hide that, ohhh I know Alorin will get a kick out of this." Focusing his mind for a moment, he mutters an arcane word and once again his physical form shimmers and is replaced by that of a curly haired gnome dressed in leathers. This disguise being one of the first ones that Alorin encountered when he first meet the goblin trickster, that of Mozzarella Gnomingtonson. As he moves toward the Huntsman ands see the mounted Sascha he ducks behind a tree to observe the situation.

Alorin shouts to the Huntsman, ”You did your best, rider! But you’ve lost your steed, and you’re outnumbered. And it looks like we’re about to have company. Things don’t seem to be going your way. I tell you again, a babe is not a prize to be won in a game, and you aren’t getting this one. Give up, and go home!”

He then moves 30 ft towards the Emerald Door and hides in some bushes behind a large tree.

As Alorin rushes past him and hides in the bushes, the Huntsman tracks him with his fey eyes, and easily seeing through his hiding place, he shoots an arrow squarely at him, downing his quarry. Then he runs after him, grabs his unconscious body by the armor, and puts his dagger glinting with poison against Alorin's throat. He laughs a wild trickster laugh. "Bring the child to me now, dog, or I'll slay your master!"

Sascha, seeing the threat of the Huntsman, lets loose her readied arrow, but it flies just over the fey's head.

El is uncertain of what to do for a minute, but her loyalty to Alorin wins out, and she runs up to him and the Huntsman with the baby. She places the infant on the ground, and looks up at the Huntsman, growling deep in her throat.

The Huntsman smiles, a cold smile of victory. "Good dog," he says, as he removes the dagger from Alorin's throat.

A chorus of bloodcurdling shouts starts to rise from the far off chanting... neither the chanting nor the shouts is far off anymore. And to the south, 60 feet away now, a group of runners surging towards them and the clearing becomes visible through the trees, led by a man in a bearskin cloak and holding a glowing, octarine object.

Alorin, Moz, and Sascha

The Hunt - Round 9

Sascha, missing her shot, drops her bow, draws her rapier, and gallops towards the Huntsman, her rapier flashing, Solis' hooves pounding. The bulk of the horse crashes into the fey Huntsman as the animal strikes out with his hooves, knocking the Huntsman to the ground. Sascha gets a solid stab in with her rapier and goes for another, but misses. Thrusting the sword in a downward motion. Perhaps it wasn't designed to be wielded from horse back, but her elevated angle, and the man's position ready to cut someone's throat left her target exposed. She strikes again, but misses as the Huntsman curls up on the ground underneath the lashing hooves of the warhorse, sustaining a terrible blow to the head.

Moz is watching the complete mess that has unfolded. All this for a child. He feels a small pang of jealousy at El's display of loyalty to Alorin, Iago wouldn't do the same for him and he wouldn't blame the Imp. Seeing the group of incoming savages, led by the Druid, he gives a heavy sigh. "What a mess..... what to do..... what to do.." Thinking of his Master's orders and his fury if he fails. "Time to roll the dice." Muttering an arcane word, his appearance shimmers and is replaced with of one of the goblin riders that accompanied the Huntsman. "Bloody Hells, I am going to regret this," he thinks to himself.

Stepping out from the trees, Moz yells at the Huntsman, in Sylvan, "Oi Master! Quick, I can get the sacrifice through the Door and then you can kill these pesky humans, who dare to challenge you." He holds his arms as if to help as he walks toward the Huntsman.

The Huntsman jerks his head up, his eyes glowing with a green shimmer, and while his eyes fixate for a moment on the baby that El just laid down, they snap around to the Druid running towards the clearing, the glowing crystal held in his hands.

In a moment the Huntsman disappears from beneath the horse's hooves, reappearing thirty feet to the north and he runs another sixty feet, towards his goblin "minion".

Knowing that there is nothing she can do for Alorin in the moment, El looks at him for a moment, licks his face tenderly, picks the baby back up, and hides in the hollow of a nearby tree, curling herself up around the crying baby, which chokes and hiccups as it begins to quiet feeling her warmth around it.

The frenzied shouts of the Lochlann warriors fill the woods as they tramp closer, the Druid of Kromac at their head. The warriors heft enormous greataxes, and though the small crowd that pushes behind them is mostly unarmed, the wild frenzy is in every pair of eyes. The Druid's eyes land on Sascha, and he shouts, "You bring battle to the clearing of Kromac! Do you wish to join the sacrifice?"

Alorin, Moz, and Sascha

The Hunt - Round 10

"The stone you carry bears a terrible curse, it will sow doom in your Sacred Grove. If I must fight to save you from yourselves, then I will," Sascha calls in answer.

As Sascha speaks she has Solis pull back to a distance of about fifty feet, not wanting to be suddenly charged.

The shouting warriors go dead silent for a moment. The Druid's eyes blaze with wild fury in the octarine glow of the crystal he holds. "You say the greatest treasure that I have ever held in my hands is not a fit offering for Kromac?"

Moz sees the wounded Huntsman running toward him, bleeding from a head wound. "Maybe my luck has finally turned." He begins to pull in the arcane energy to unleash on the Huntsman, when he sees the bleeding form of Alorin in the snow. A strange feeling resounds in his chest and he recalls the various pranks that he played on his friend, and how Alorin took them with grace and good humor. Groaning to himself, decides to put aside his desire to blast the Huntsman and try go help Alorin. "At lest Iago isn't here, or I wouldn't hear the end of this."

Moz then starts waving his hands. "Run, Master, I will slow them down. Make for the Emerald Door!" Moz then runs past the Huntsman, toward Alorin bleeding form in the snow, as he goes he looks for any shadows to duck into.

The Huntsman reaches out to grab the goblin as he runs past. "No! We need to leave--now!" Catching him by the collar he drags the goblin with him as he runs towards the door.

El stays in hiding with the baby. She knows that she has no ability to heal Alorin, but maybe the newcomers do. And hiding him could prevent that. On the other hand, losing El’s warmth could harm the baby or even cause it to start crying again. The baby snuggles into El's fluffy fur, quieted for the moment.

The Druid and his warriors advance towards Sascha, their eyes fixed on her. They do not see El hiding in the hollow of the tree, nor do they see the wounded Alorin sprawled in the bushes. The warriors grip their axes, but they don't attack yet, although it appears as though a hair trigger would send them into a violent rush. The Druid glares, his hands still tightly on the crystal. "Perhaps you wish to be the offering, instead, mainlander."

2 Thawing, 1126

Thamno, Vaelorn, and Valanthe

The following day dawns bright and early, and beyond the misty, green-embraced borders of Eladria, the sinister fog of Vague has disappeared as if it never were, brightening spirits all around. Valanthe, Vaelorn, and Thamno had spent the remainder of the day following the meeting with the Council packing and preparing, and early the next day, Queen Genevieve summons them once again, to her personal grove in the high bows of the center of Eladria, to share with them the solemn findings.

"Maiatha reports that the ferocious creatures of Almorra's Isle are roaming in a great frenzy. Nothing has come to the shores of that isle... they patrol it constantly, thirsting for fresh blood to haphazardly land. But nothing has changed there.

Paelias reports that, according to our brethren residing there, nothing has changed in Westemar... the war has ended, and the traffic in and out of the ruined city is only getting busier. Delerium is being hauled overland and shipped downriver to the ports in ever increasing amounts." The Queen pauses, gripped with an unnamed sorrow for a moment, and then she continues.

"Siannodel reports from Grandmaster Delilah at Starspire Observatory that they have imported no delerium here. The mages at the Observatory are engaged with their astronomical calculations and are not part of the division dealing with the delerium in Drakkenheim."

Queen Genevieve smiles... "And so, my dear, our last source of information falls to you... you've prepared for your journey? You need not walk, nor take a dangerous route. Thamno will know the way you are taking. Siannodel will be the one to send you. He is waiting for you at the eastern gate of Eladria. Be safe. Send me a message when you are able." The Queen draws her daughter into a last embrace.

Down the gentle staircases cradled in the branches of the great trees, past the softly glowing lights, the greenstone paved and hushed city streets, the intrepid group walks, and as they approach the high arched gate, its columns and arches built of immaculately formed trunks and branches of graceful, silver-barked trees, they see Siannodel standing below the arch, waiting for them. He is dressed only in his blue Council robe, not for travel of any sort. nods when he sees Valanthe. "Welcome, my Lady," he says. "Your path to Darryl will be quick, for I have visited the ancient trees in the towering fir forest on the hills that overlook the bay at the estuaries of Gadabout and Cygnet. However, our doorway is outside of Eladria proper, for the magic wrought in this place is of protection, and not egress." Turning, he leads the way out of Eladria.

The soft, mist-shrouded trellis of trees bows over them as they walk down the winding, greenstone-paved path out of the elven city. Gradually, the gentle woods begin to recede, and here and there a pattering of freezing rain breaks through, and ice and bare ground and dead vegetation begins to take up residence under the boughs of the trees as they, even, begin to drop their leaves. The grey-haired elven elder quietly leads the way, moving as silently as a cat, even as the enchanted oasis of the elven forest gives way to the frozen wintery landscape of the rest of Skye.

Finally, they step out into the wintery air. Two white pillars of ice stand starkly at the top of a sloping ridge that stretches down over frozen bracken and patches of ice to overlook the vast lake. And, huddled underneath a tree and warming themselves over a sputtering fire, are a pair of travellers, wrapped in cloaks and furs against the cold, and a strange and wonderful soft-furred cow with long horns, harnessed to a sled. The small group looks half-frozen, as if they had traveled treacherous miles in terrible weather.

Siannodel's eyes flash, and he slips into the fading shadows of the trees, disappearing from sight.

Valanthe pulls up the hood of her cloak as they leave the glade, blowing out a few puffs of misty breath in cold air seeing if the shape of her mouth changes the shape of the vapour. She glances ahead at Sinnodel and Vaelorn in case they notice her frivolity. Continuing to follow them, she mentally checks her checklist of supplies and equipment she carries for their journey to Darryl just one more time… bedroll, candles, rations, parchment, quiver and ink for Vaelorn’s note-taking, tinderbox - did she have the tinderbox or was that Vaelorn’s pack? She starts rapidly patting down her pouches as if trying to locate the box…

…and bumps into a stationery Vaelorn. Looking up and stepping around the monk, Sinnodel is nowhere to be seen:

“Where’s Sinnodel?” she asks “Are we…” Valanthe’s voice trails off as she finds herself looking at the most beautiful horned beast she has seen since living in the forest with her father.

Realising the cow is not alone, she clears her throat, adjusts her posture and addresses the two huddled figures.

“Well met, travellers. What brings you to these woods in such inclement weather?” She takes a step forward to place herself between Vaelorn and the strangers, noting their foreign garb. Under her cloak, her hand rests on the hilt of her sword with intent.

"See, I was right, following the stones would lead us to people. Luckily for us, we didn't have to travel very far." the large red-headed man says to his traveling companion as he rises from the fire. He turns to address the approaching elves, "Greetings. We have been searching for the elves of Eladria. I am Angus Lochlann, of clan Lochlann and Steward of the Silver Sword. I've tried my best to stay out of your ancient forests and mind to my own business. We mean no harm and ask of you only your knowledge. And we are sorry if our presence has come to a surprise to you. We had to retreat through one of those magic doors from some ghouls." He pushes the greataxe at his feet to the side with his foot, his hands raised.

"One of your kind has returned from the mainland and seeks to know what has happened to their family." Angus then steps to the side and gestures towards Rivyre.

Alorin, Moz, and Sascha

The Hunt - Round 11

 "So be it." The noble responds with grim determination. Sascha produces her shield and spurs Solis into motion,  She rushes toward the Druid, and thrusts her rapier toward him. With that the horse peels away from the followers of Kromac, disengaging as he carries Sascha back toward the center of the grove.  This is the plan, as best she can impliment it. Hit and run. Sascha's rapier skewers the Druid hard, her horse's pounding hooves kicking up snow as she charges in and gallops out again. The Druid screams, a primal, animal cry.

To the south, three figures are running pell-mell through the trees towards the cluster of villagers and the Lochlann warriors. One of them snatches an arrow from a quiver on his back and shoots it towards the Druid in his bearkskin cloak. It lands with a wet, solid thunk. He stumbles forward.

Surprised at the Huntsman's concern for his minion. Moz says to him, "Master, your concern is touching. I can make my way on my own if you would release me." The Huntsman flashes narrowed eyes down at the goblin, but he keeps hold of him, running towards the Emerald Door. Mentally cursing his bad luck today, Moz tries to squirm out of the Huntsman's grasp, wriggling out pretty easily. That bleeding head wound isn't doing too much for the fairy's grip strength.

Wiggling out of his grip, Moz says to the Huntsman. "You first Master, I am right behind you."  Looking behind them at the Druid and Sascha, he falls behind tagging after the Huntsman. The Huntsman, losing his grip on Moz, keeps running towards the Emerald Door.

The villagers following after the Druid and his warriors begin to cry out in great wails and shouts as first Sascha, and then the strange archer behind them, attack their beloved hierophant, bringing him nearly to his knees. "No!" "Stop!" "A plague on the priests of the Flame!" "Kill them!!"

Unable to reach the warrior on horseback, the whole mob turns around to the figures on foot running up behind them and charge towards them. One of the fur-clad warriors, raising his greataxe with a bloodthirsty howl, charges towards the archer who landed the blow on the Druid. He swings wildly, but the archer dodges behind a tree, which takes the brunt of the axe in a deep cut.

The mob comes next, swinging at the archer, but he deftly escapes unscathed, only taking one solid punch to the jaw from at thrown blow.

The second of the Druid's warriors runs to him and plants himself firmly next to the wounded man, readying his axe to defend him from any attackers who come close.

One of the newly arrived men, coming up from the woods, flashes his blade and bears down on the reckless warrior, hewing into him. Radiant light suffuses his blade, glinting off of his armor. Sir Lorn has come to the rescue!

The other man with Sir Lorn rushes forward to the charging warrior, and lays into him with a wicked looking morningstar, bashing relentlessly before shoving him hard with his shield. The berserker staggers but keeps his feet.

El stays in the little tree hollow with the baby, making sure it is warm, and more importantly, quiet. She looks out, to where Alorin lies in the bushes, and prepares to defend against anyone that threatens either Alorin or the baby.

The Druid straightens up... and bleeding from his terrible wounds, he staggers forward, and, with the delerium shard in one hand, he stretches out his other hand, and a greenish, ocatarine fire burns to life within his palm. As he gets within thirty feet of Sascha, he suddenly hurls it at her. The hot glowing ball sails towards her, but it goes wide, smashing into one of the fir trees nearby her and catching the branches on fire. Snow and icy mist steams as the crackling fire consumes the pitch-coated fir needles and twigs.