The day started with bright optimism. Sunlight shone through the leaves, dappled light dancing along the paths of the capital city as the Elves of Arandor gathered.
Faelith Thistlebrook approached the meeting point, noting the familiar face of Taanyth Nolbre already waiting. It was no surprise the fiery Shieldbearer had answered the call first. She had shown more than once her swift acceptance of danger when the call was given.
Well met
Greetings. What are we expecting during this... field trip?
Expecting? A barely thought through plan, chaos, and probably a mild disaster...
Beside her, Taanyth let out a hearty chuckle at the Lifebringer's flatly intoned words.
But the goal, if it can be accomplished, is to perform a ritual and identify the 'being' responsible for keeping Triverton's waters polluted. If they are to be believed, they have evidence it is a being causing it, not just the doings of people. And before we can stop whatever it is.. we need to find it and identify it.
Hm. Well I'll be there to safe guard our people, but I'm not sure how I feel about the denizens of that city.
I am sure how I feel about them, and it is not good. But the natural world there is of Aldarwen whether or not we like those who put up homes there. That is the only reason I agreed to this... mess.
It's admirable that you would offer your assistance despite your inclination towards these humans. I would think they would have planned everything out carefully if they're serious about this restoration.
You would think that....
As they spoke, others filtered in to join the gathering. Three were familiar faces who had been there at the initial meeting with Trivertion: Voidwalker Sylas Morn and Forestwardens Arcia and Starling. The former a Hill Elf who, true to his kind, was a man of few words when he appeared in public and the later two newcomers to Arandor who seemed to be finally adjusting in their new home. A moment later the second druid arrived, Aelion Thalaris accompanied by his steadfast bear companion. The last to arrive was one whose presence brought both surprise and hope, Oracle of Seraphiel Ynariel Thal. Surely the Mystic Veil’s rarely seen presence would be a good omen.
Ynariel smiled and gave a gentle nod to those gathered before taking a long puff from her pipe.
I hope you're all doing well- despite recent tragedies.
The party shifted, each expressing in their own way a grief born from their late Magistrate.
I see. Off to Tilverton?
Aye, I'm going to keep this jolly band safe, as is my duty.
The Oracle blew out another puff of smoke
"Beneath the mire, the old song sleeps-- if they sing true, the water will wake"
Something I read a long time ago. Perhaps it has meaning here. Stay safe. And may the Seraphiel see your return.
Under Dovaros' protection we will return unharmed.
And with that, the band of Elves departed for Triverton.
Triverton Waters Run Deep (Event Thread, all Welcome)
Re: Triverton Waters Run Deep (Event Thread, all Welcome)
The trip to Triverton was swift and upon arriving Faelith was surprised to see no Humans, but rather the quirky Elven Druid, Maez'zhvro, nibbling on a muffin and smiling widely. Seeing their arrival, he rolled up to his feet and dusted himself off.
Ah Arandor hass arrived!
As we said we would. Do we wait for Edana? Have we heard from them if they are coming?
I ssupose we can await to see if anymore wissh to aid
Aldarwen cannot do all the work.
As if on cue, Clyde Marshal, Mercenary amongst other titles he’d earned amongst the Elves, arrived. No, wait, he seemed to be sporting a new insignia since last she’d seen him. It was possible he’d aligned himself with today’s host, Triverton's Overseer Zomactelonyvarix, who was in turn next to arrive.
Good to see so many
My... condolences in this time of mourning. The news have reached us.
Putting aside her dislike for the man's practices, Faelith inclined her head by way of thanks for the sentiment. At the Overseer’s suggestion, they waited a bit longer for any stragglers.
Maybe while were waiting you elves could think up a spell for the smell as well.
heh.. I think that will solve itself once the bay is restored.
The Lifebringer held her tongue, despite thinking that Clyde's problem may simply be one of his own making that a little soap would correct. This was a diplomatic matter to some extent, and at least for now he had refrained from insulting her ilk, though after their last meeting she was not holding her breath. She distracted herself with the arrival of Mercadian Councilman Cedric Warren and their own self proclaimed princeling, Arynn Lanrcei. She was relieved to see he seemed to have learned his lesson after last time, no longer laying claim to human titles.
Well then...
Sshall we details the planss
Indeed. In our initial meeting, we determined the blight has a source, hidden deep below the waters of the bay. It could be a creature, an entity, an elemental... We don't know. Before we decide how to procceed with it, we need to find out. Therefore... today's ritual is to investigate the source's nature. Once we know what we're dealing with, then we can come up with an informed decision. I do believe this source knows of our attempt… And will try to stop it, at all costs...
That would suggest intelligence, if nothing else.
Those of us outside of the ritual will have to protect it. So that the druids can finish it.
There were murmurs and mumblings as the gathered Elves and Humans let the words sink in. Some prepared spells as they listened, buffing their allies, others comforted their furry companions. There was an air of anticipation, so many gathered for a purpose that had no guarantee of success.
If there is no protest, we can proceed.
Ah Arandor hass arrived!
As we said we would. Do we wait for Edana? Have we heard from them if they are coming?
I ssupose we can await to see if anymore wissh to aid
Aldarwen cannot do all the work.
As if on cue, Clyde Marshal, Mercenary amongst other titles he’d earned amongst the Elves, arrived. No, wait, he seemed to be sporting a new insignia since last she’d seen him. It was possible he’d aligned himself with today’s host, Triverton's Overseer Zomactelonyvarix, who was in turn next to arrive.
Good to see so many
My... condolences in this time of mourning. The news have reached us.
Putting aside her dislike for the man's practices, Faelith inclined her head by way of thanks for the sentiment. At the Overseer’s suggestion, they waited a bit longer for any stragglers.
Maybe while were waiting you elves could think up a spell for the smell as well.
heh.. I think that will solve itself once the bay is restored.
The Lifebringer held her tongue, despite thinking that Clyde's problem may simply be one of his own making that a little soap would correct. This was a diplomatic matter to some extent, and at least for now he had refrained from insulting her ilk, though after their last meeting she was not holding her breath. She distracted herself with the arrival of Mercadian Councilman Cedric Warren and their own self proclaimed princeling, Arynn Lanrcei. She was relieved to see he seemed to have learned his lesson after last time, no longer laying claim to human titles.
Well then...
Sshall we details the planss
Indeed. In our initial meeting, we determined the blight has a source, hidden deep below the waters of the bay. It could be a creature, an entity, an elemental... We don't know. Before we decide how to procceed with it, we need to find out. Therefore... today's ritual is to investigate the source's nature. Once we know what we're dealing with, then we can come up with an informed decision. I do believe this source knows of our attempt… And will try to stop it, at all costs...
That would suggest intelligence, if nothing else.
Those of us outside of the ritual will have to protect it. So that the druids can finish it.
There were murmurs and mumblings as the gathered Elves and Humans let the words sink in. Some prepared spells as they listened, buffing their allies, others comforted their furry companions. There was an air of anticipation, so many gathered for a purpose that had no guarantee of success.
If there is no protest, we can proceed.
Re: Triverton Waters Run Deep (Event Thread, all Welcome)
The adventures eventually moved to a location beneath Triverton’s streets where a system of floating rafts and walkways attached to the pier supports that held up the town over the bay. The structural integrity of the platforms seemed questionable, but it was the smell that was more concerning. Piled high with garbage, the stench of rot and refuse perfumed the air, cloying at the inside of the nose.
Faelith eyed the piles of garbage as they walked by, aiding the other druids and Zoma in finding a central position that seemed the most defensible for the ceremony. Around her, people scoped out the location for threats, spreading out around the outside of the platform. From the corner of her eye she noted Clyde downing an ale in a few gulps then tossing the bottle into the now growing pile of garbage… only to immediately hit his head on a rafter and fall off his horse. She couldn’t help the smirk that formed on her lips. Several others did their best to try not to notice the Human’s antics, or at least hid their amusement.
Maez’zhvro define the ceremonial space using a power crystal, one he set with care. Using one of his claws to prick another finger, the druid softly inscribes a rune. With Maez’zhvro taking up the position West of the crystal, Faelith took North, Aelion Thalaris moved to the East which just left South… a spot Faelith swiftly assigned to an unsure seeming Arcia. He may not be a druid, but as an Elf sword to Aldarwen, she figured his connection would suffice.
When it came time to discuss the actual workings of the ritual, Faelith was unsurprised that the finger details had not yet been worked out. Hands on her hips, she eyed the Druid and Humans who had started all of this.
I don't suppose you all have come up with a chant or spell?
Maez'zhvro showed a toothed grin to her remark and finished up the ritual token, casting blessing power over the crystal.
I must admit that I am not much for magics and the like.
Worry not … You are blessed with the gift of nature. That will guide you.
I'm not worried. I came prepared.
Faelith pulled some papers from her bag, passing them to each of the cardinal positions while all around them, their defenders prepared for battle.
As if sensing the intent of the group above, the water below Triverton began to bubble with anticipation, causing more than a few to ready their weapons.
Hmm.. There is... a disturbance....
Taking a long deep breath, Faelith put out her hands, palms up, straightened her stance. In a clear voice that projects off the wooden pillars beneath the city, she begins to chant and focus the flow within her Lyrandel onto the center point of the power crystal. Aelion Thalaris relaxes as Fealith's chant fills the air around them, focusing his energy and efforts.
We call to thee, Aldarwen, mighty Vala of the wilds.
Though who walks the verdant paths, we seek thy wisdom.
The water below pushed against the docks, shaking the floor. Starling’s arms shot out to each side catching her balance while Taanyth steadied herself against the waves and slides herself into a combat stance. These docks uhh..arnt too strong..
Show us the source of sorrow.
Reveal to us the hidden wound, the blight that festers unseen
The sound of raindrops begins beating down on the city above as Maez'zhvro settled a hand to balance on his staff ... using his other to focus energy to the token and channel roots around the druids.
Let thy breath pass on the wind, touching water and loam.
Where rot clings, let it speak; where poison hides, let it be named.
Unveil the cause, unmask the hand that wounds thy sacred realm.
The water shifts and gurgles, mud spurting upwards, Cedric eyeing it warily. Starling’s hands cover her face and she takes a half step back from the railing. Something comes! Brace yourselves!
Let no shadow foul escape thy gaze; let truth root deep within the soil.
The blight, the source, the shadow's name—let none remain unseen!
The last word of the chant rang through and then… silence. Faelith waited, focusing on feeling for signs of Aldarwen answering their call. One moment. Two.
Were good...just a few bubbles..
Faelith eyed the piles of garbage as they walked by, aiding the other druids and Zoma in finding a central position that seemed the most defensible for the ceremony. Around her, people scoped out the location for threats, spreading out around the outside of the platform. From the corner of her eye she noted Clyde downing an ale in a few gulps then tossing the bottle into the now growing pile of garbage… only to immediately hit his head on a rafter and fall off his horse. She couldn’t help the smirk that formed on her lips. Several others did their best to try not to notice the Human’s antics, or at least hid their amusement.
Maez’zhvro define the ceremonial space using a power crystal, one he set with care. Using one of his claws to prick another finger, the druid softly inscribes a rune. With Maez’zhvro taking up the position West of the crystal, Faelith took North, Aelion Thalaris moved to the East which just left South… a spot Faelith swiftly assigned to an unsure seeming Arcia. He may not be a druid, but as an Elf sword to Aldarwen, she figured his connection would suffice.
When it came time to discuss the actual workings of the ritual, Faelith was unsurprised that the finger details had not yet been worked out. Hands on her hips, she eyed the Druid and Humans who had started all of this.
I don't suppose you all have come up with a chant or spell?
Maez'zhvro showed a toothed grin to her remark and finished up the ritual token, casting blessing power over the crystal.
I must admit that I am not much for magics and the like.
Worry not … You are blessed with the gift of nature. That will guide you.
I'm not worried. I came prepared.
Faelith pulled some papers from her bag, passing them to each of the cardinal positions while all around them, their defenders prepared for battle.
As if sensing the intent of the group above, the water below Triverton began to bubble with anticipation, causing more than a few to ready their weapons.
Hmm.. There is... a disturbance....
Taking a long deep breath, Faelith put out her hands, palms up, straightened her stance. In a clear voice that projects off the wooden pillars beneath the city, she begins to chant and focus the flow within her Lyrandel onto the center point of the power crystal. Aelion Thalaris relaxes as Fealith's chant fills the air around them, focusing his energy and efforts.
We call to thee, Aldarwen, mighty Vala of the wilds.
Though who walks the verdant paths, we seek thy wisdom.
The water below pushed against the docks, shaking the floor. Starling’s arms shot out to each side catching her balance while Taanyth steadied herself against the waves and slides herself into a combat stance. These docks uhh..arnt too strong..
Show us the source of sorrow.
Reveal to us the hidden wound, the blight that festers unseen
The sound of raindrops begins beating down on the city above as Maez'zhvro settled a hand to balance on his staff ... using his other to focus energy to the token and channel roots around the druids.
Let thy breath pass on the wind, touching water and loam.
Where rot clings, let it speak; where poison hides, let it be named.
Unveil the cause, unmask the hand that wounds thy sacred realm.
The water shifts and gurgles, mud spurting upwards, Cedric eyeing it warily. Starling’s hands cover her face and she takes a half step back from the railing. Something comes! Brace yourselves!
Let no shadow foul escape thy gaze; let truth root deep within the soil.
The blight, the source, the shadow's name—let none remain unseen!
The last word of the chant rang through and then… silence. Faelith waited, focusing on feeling for signs of Aldarwen answering their call. One moment. Two.
Were good...just a few bubbles..
Last edited by AuroraWR on Tue Jul 08, 2025 10:03 pm, edited 2 times in total.
Re: Triverton Waters Run Deep (Event Thread, all Welcome)
Clyde’s words seemed to be the cue, suddenly the water bubbled and came to life as the mud below forms into the shapes of creatures. Built of a combination of water, mud, refuse, waste and magic, the perverse beings resembled some sort of elementals gone horribly wrong. The area went from still to a furry of motion as the defenders moved to intercept the monsters before they could disrupt the ceremony. Swords slashed, firebombs were lobbed, magic shot cold ice to try to freeze the beings in place. Cedric planted his legs, striking back against the onslaught while Aelion also planted his feat, trying to keep centered on the task at hand while all around him blew up in the action of battle. Next to him, Maez'zhvro grimaced, almost falling over and Faelith reached for her fellow druids, trying to help them keep standing.
Protect the ritual!
For the Queen! For Arandor!
And then through the sounds of fighting, Arcia raised his voice and the chant began anew.
We call to thee, Aldarwen, mighty Vala of the wilds.
Though who walks the verdant paths, we seek thy wisdom
Show us the source of sorrow.
Reveal to us the hidden wound, the blight that festers unseen.
Let thy breath pass on the wind, touching water and loam.
Where rot clings, let it speak; where poison hides, let it be named.
Unveil the cause, unmask the hand that wounds thy sacred realm.
Let no shadow foul escape thy gaze; let truth root deep within the soil.
The blight, the source, the shadows name. Let none remain unseen.
More waves of blighted figures crawled from the water, washing up onto the rotting boards to attack the allied force. Cederic’s shouts could be heard even as Clyde was consumed in holy healing fires. Somewhere, Arryn snuck around and lobbed another flask of fire while Sylas took a moment to use his frost to recoup some of his mana. And then, for a moment, things quieted down. Bah! Just a bunch of mud!!! Faeltih nods to her fellow druids, encouraging them to continue and with that, Aelion took up the chant.
We call to thee, Aldarwen, mighty Vala of the wilds.
Though who walks the verdant paths, we seek thy wisdom
Show us the source of sorrow.
Reveal to us the hidden wound, the blight that festers unseen.
Let thy breath pass on the wind, touching water and loam.
Where rot clings, let it speak; where poison hides, let it be named.
Unveil the cause, unmask the hand that wounds thy sacred realm.
Let no shadow foul escape thy gaze; let truth root deep within the soil.
The blight, the source, the shadows name. Let none remain unseen.
For a time the waters remained quiet, giving the adventures a brief respite to catch their breath or eat muddy bread. Taanyth spun her blades impatiently, waiting for another wave of attacks. Maez'zhvro coughing lightly and steadying himself as the ritual clearly was taking a toll. Hmm.. Too quiet… Cedric winced at the smell Eugh. Then towards the end of the chant, the water began to stir again. Forming around the docks, larger and with more strength than the last time. It is still reacting, it seems... Be on your guard.
And it was at this time when a wave of water splashed onto the docks and washed Sylas away from the group.
Uh oh.
What! Sylas?
Someone raise the fallen...
We lost one?
We will not lose him
Nature presserve us
Panic gripped Faelith, in the wake of all the losses recently she could not lose another. People searched the waters through the hoard of enemies, looking for their lost comrade, and she was a breath away from breaking the ritual to dive in after him when the Hill Elf pulled himself out of the mire and onto the boards, spitting out mud and grumbling. Faelith was a wash with relief.
Eugh…
Wonderful. Now everything tastes like actual shit.
Taanyth ruffled through her pouches and offered out a small bushel of mint to the muttering Sylas, This might help. which is took, chewed, and promptly gagged before angrily grumbling to himself, in tongues as he was caked in muck and probably shit
That helps with the smell at least..
A beer might work better. At least your robes are already brown
More waves of attackers rose, stronger each time to the point of nearly wiping the allies out. At one point the power crystal was lost within the muck and mire, pulled under the mud off the side of the dock only to be shattered, the pieces floating back up to the top. It was then that Faelith felt something tugging at the corners of her mind and her words came out a stream of thought.
This blight…
Earth magic.
Corrupted.. with man's malice.
It's magic.. corrupted magic.
Earth in nature...
But all the hate and blood spilt here.. it must have corrupted it somehow into... all this.
They still needed to locate the source of the magic, but it was a start. The ritual had worked, and the others expressed the same relief she felt. All around people gathered up the injured, tending to wounds through the strong stench that permeated every fiber of everyone’s clothing. One poor Elf hurled over the side, while Taanyth lectured Clyde on how to properly dispose of trash. They gathered their people, their solid belongings, and left the fettered space. Water elementals were summoned and impromptu showers attempted to wash away the prevailing brown and smell. One suspiciously clean Arynn attempted to eat something, only to promptly puke and Faelith couldn’t help but think despite this he’d grown.
Faeltih said a prayer to the Valar, thanking them for bringing all of their people safely, if not cleanly, home. As the mountain pass opened wide, revealing the flower laden banks of River Arandor, Sylas reminded her of the words their new Magistrate had written: We will rise because it is our burden—and our right—to shape the world we live in. Today the Elves of Arandor had risen, and she thought that Brynloris and her parents would be proud.
Protect the ritual!
For the Queen! For Arandor!
And then through the sounds of fighting, Arcia raised his voice and the chant began anew.
We call to thee, Aldarwen, mighty Vala of the wilds.
Though who walks the verdant paths, we seek thy wisdom
Show us the source of sorrow.
Reveal to us the hidden wound, the blight that festers unseen.
Let thy breath pass on the wind, touching water and loam.
Where rot clings, let it speak; where poison hides, let it be named.
Unveil the cause, unmask the hand that wounds thy sacred realm.
Let no shadow foul escape thy gaze; let truth root deep within the soil.
The blight, the source, the shadows name. Let none remain unseen.
More waves of blighted figures crawled from the water, washing up onto the rotting boards to attack the allied force. Cederic’s shouts could be heard even as Clyde was consumed in holy healing fires. Somewhere, Arryn snuck around and lobbed another flask of fire while Sylas took a moment to use his frost to recoup some of his mana. And then, for a moment, things quieted down. Bah! Just a bunch of mud!!! Faeltih nods to her fellow druids, encouraging them to continue and with that, Aelion took up the chant.
We call to thee, Aldarwen, mighty Vala of the wilds.
Though who walks the verdant paths, we seek thy wisdom
Show us the source of sorrow.
Reveal to us the hidden wound, the blight that festers unseen.
Let thy breath pass on the wind, touching water and loam.
Where rot clings, let it speak; where poison hides, let it be named.
Unveil the cause, unmask the hand that wounds thy sacred realm.
Let no shadow foul escape thy gaze; let truth root deep within the soil.
The blight, the source, the shadows name. Let none remain unseen.
For a time the waters remained quiet, giving the adventures a brief respite to catch their breath or eat muddy bread. Taanyth spun her blades impatiently, waiting for another wave of attacks. Maez'zhvro coughing lightly and steadying himself as the ritual clearly was taking a toll. Hmm.. Too quiet… Cedric winced at the smell Eugh. Then towards the end of the chant, the water began to stir again. Forming around the docks, larger and with more strength than the last time. It is still reacting, it seems... Be on your guard.
And it was at this time when a wave of water splashed onto the docks and washed Sylas away from the group.
Uh oh.
What! Sylas?
Someone raise the fallen...
We lost one?
We will not lose him
Nature presserve us
Panic gripped Faelith, in the wake of all the losses recently she could not lose another. People searched the waters through the hoard of enemies, looking for their lost comrade, and she was a breath away from breaking the ritual to dive in after him when the Hill Elf pulled himself out of the mire and onto the boards, spitting out mud and grumbling. Faelith was a wash with relief.
Eugh…
Wonderful. Now everything tastes like actual shit.
Taanyth ruffled through her pouches and offered out a small bushel of mint to the muttering Sylas, This might help. which is took, chewed, and promptly gagged before angrily grumbling to himself, in tongues as he was caked in muck and probably shit
That helps with the smell at least..
A beer might work better. At least your robes are already brown
More waves of attackers rose, stronger each time to the point of nearly wiping the allies out. At one point the power crystal was lost within the muck and mire, pulled under the mud off the side of the dock only to be shattered, the pieces floating back up to the top. It was then that Faelith felt something tugging at the corners of her mind and her words came out a stream of thought.
This blight…
Earth magic.
Corrupted.. with man's malice.
It's magic.. corrupted magic.
Earth in nature...
But all the hate and blood spilt here.. it must have corrupted it somehow into... all this.
They still needed to locate the source of the magic, but it was a start. The ritual had worked, and the others expressed the same relief she felt. All around people gathered up the injured, tending to wounds through the strong stench that permeated every fiber of everyone’s clothing. One poor Elf hurled over the side, while Taanyth lectured Clyde on how to properly dispose of trash. They gathered their people, their solid belongings, and left the fettered space. Water elementals were summoned and impromptu showers attempted to wash away the prevailing brown and smell. One suspiciously clean Arynn attempted to eat something, only to promptly puke and Faelith couldn’t help but think despite this he’d grown.
Faeltih said a prayer to the Valar, thanking them for bringing all of their people safely, if not cleanly, home. As the mountain pass opened wide, revealing the flower laden banks of River Arandor, Sylas reminded her of the words their new Magistrate had written: We will rise because it is our burden—and our right—to shape the world we live in. Today the Elves of Arandor had risen, and she thought that Brynloris and her parents would be proud.
Re: Triverton Waters Run Deep (Event Thread, all Welcome)
"What are you waiting for, Jeremiah?", asked Zomactelonyvarix. "Go on. Dive."
The hulking monstrosity that was Jeremiah, a golem crafted from flesh and blood, limped to edge of the docks and let itself fall, clumsly and awkwardly, into the putrid waters. The Overseer watched from above, controlling their creation like a puppeteer. The anaerobic creature searched the filth and silt, groping, scrabbling, digging through the trash as it searched tiredlessly.
This was the fourth attempt. It started to feel like a waste of time. Nothing could displease them more. Time was the only currency the necromancer was not willing to spend frivolously. Their patience ever dwindling.
Then... A gurgling sound reached their ears. All the mud and sewage seemed to stir, as the deformed golem climbed up the stilts back to the docks, dripping muck and exhaling a foul stench. Seeming undisturbed, or perhaps driven by a volition so strong the smell couldn't bother them, Zoma approached the melancholy frame of their golem. And, with a gesture, ordered the creature to reveal its findings.
"Grolnrrrr..", grumbled Jeremiah, opening its enormous hand, composed of far too many fingers, all of which bore mismatched forms and sizes; and most likely different origins as well.
There, sitting on the creature's hand, were the few crystal shards it managed to recover from the bay; the vestiges of the druidic ritual. Behind their mask, Zoma smiled.
"Good job, Jeremiah. Good job. You aren't totally useless after all."
* * *
Zoma took the crystals to their study. After cleaning them, they leaned over the fragments, scrutinizing, analyzing, investigating. Those crystals, during the druidic ritual, had connected with the entity below the bay. And now that they were in the wizard's possession, they planned to use the shards to scry the entity, and perhaps learn where it hid or its true form.
They knew the people assisting Tilverton in the restoration of the bay each had their own reasons to do so. And Zoma was no different. At first, a noble cause to bring some quality into the lives of those who called the Freeport home; the Wyrd Cabal's march of progress could never be stopped. However, somewhere along the way, the good intention gave way to opportunity - a once in a lifetime opportunity.
How could they ignore such potential after they learned the secrets of the tilvan waters and the ancient earth magic it contained? Soon, curiosity turned to ambition, and ambition turned to hunger. They needed to know. They needed to find out, to unveil the mystery, to uncover the enigma, all so they could answer a question; a simple but pervasive question: what if, instead of destroying the entity, they attempted to tame it instead? Not to control it, but to harness it? As a necromancer, they were a master of turning their enemies' forces against them. If they somehow could absorb the entity's power over blight, could they use it against it?
Could they make it their own...?
The hulking monstrosity that was Jeremiah, a golem crafted from flesh and blood, limped to edge of the docks and let itself fall, clumsly and awkwardly, into the putrid waters. The Overseer watched from above, controlling their creation like a puppeteer. The anaerobic creature searched the filth and silt, groping, scrabbling, digging through the trash as it searched tiredlessly.
This was the fourth attempt. It started to feel like a waste of time. Nothing could displease them more. Time was the only currency the necromancer was not willing to spend frivolously. Their patience ever dwindling.
Then... A gurgling sound reached their ears. All the mud and sewage seemed to stir, as the deformed golem climbed up the stilts back to the docks, dripping muck and exhaling a foul stench. Seeming undisturbed, or perhaps driven by a volition so strong the smell couldn't bother them, Zoma approached the melancholy frame of their golem. And, with a gesture, ordered the creature to reveal its findings.
"Grolnrrrr..", grumbled Jeremiah, opening its enormous hand, composed of far too many fingers, all of which bore mismatched forms and sizes; and most likely different origins as well.
There, sitting on the creature's hand, were the few crystal shards it managed to recover from the bay; the vestiges of the druidic ritual. Behind their mask, Zoma smiled.
"Good job, Jeremiah. Good job. You aren't totally useless after all."
* * *
Zoma took the crystals to their study. After cleaning them, they leaned over the fragments, scrutinizing, analyzing, investigating. Those crystals, during the druidic ritual, had connected with the entity below the bay. And now that they were in the wizard's possession, they planned to use the shards to scry the entity, and perhaps learn where it hid or its true form.
They knew the people assisting Tilverton in the restoration of the bay each had their own reasons to do so. And Zoma was no different. At first, a noble cause to bring some quality into the lives of those who called the Freeport home; the Wyrd Cabal's march of progress could never be stopped. However, somewhere along the way, the good intention gave way to opportunity - a once in a lifetime opportunity.
How could they ignore such potential after they learned the secrets of the tilvan waters and the ancient earth magic it contained? Soon, curiosity turned to ambition, and ambition turned to hunger. They needed to know. They needed to find out, to unveil the mystery, to uncover the enigma, all so they could answer a question; a simple but pervasive question: what if, instead of destroying the entity, they attempted to tame it instead? Not to control it, but to harness it? As a necromancer, they were a master of turning their enemies' forces against them. If they somehow could absorb the entity's power over blight, could they use it against it?
Could they make it their own...?
Re: Triverton Waters Run Deep (Event Thread, all Welcome)
"He who fights with monsters should be careful lest he thereby becomes a monster. And if thou gaze long into an abyss, the abyss will also gaze into thee." - ancient keltish proverb.
* * *
It worked! Or so thought the Overseer...
At first, their scrying for the entity led nowhere, like plunging into the murky waters of the bay. All Zoma saw was darkness. But perhaps... Perhaps the darkness saw them too. Amidst all the blackness, a frail and delicate glint pulsed in the distance; calling out to them, luring them, hungrily. And Zoma, who knew that hunger well, more than anything, plunged deeper, reaching for it...
And just in time, really. They had exhausted all the crystal shards.
Minutes turned into hours; hours into days; days into weeks. The Overseer, often a daily presence in Tilverton's routine, was nowhere to be seen, secluded in their tower. The All-Seeing Eye of The Stranger at the top searched and searched, twitching, shaking, desperate to find Its most loyal and zealous servant; Its Harbinger. Where were the daily sacrifices? The prayers in reverence and terror? The machinations to summon The Whispered One into the Material Plane?
Where was Zomactelonyvarix...?
* * *
Before they traveled to the Grove, Zoma summoned the tilvans for a meeting at Fort Risencrantz. Something was off about the Overseer, but their guild mates couldn't quite tell what. Zoma was emotional and impulsive, two traits the wizard always had considered flaws. To an extent, Zoma was more human than ever, a condition the necromancer was known to despise, among their peers. Everything about mortality used to make Zoma cringe. Flesh was regarded as nothing but a prison.
And yet, there they stood, shifting between varied states of mind; happy and sad, excited and depressed. But most of all: hungry; hungry for power. What had happened? While the Overseer spoke and gave the orders for the day, Gustha, Clyde and Rudyard exchanged glances, never once doubting their leader, but noticing the sudden shift all the same.
And the laughter... Zoma was not one to laugh. At most, a light and discreet chuckle. They were self-restrained and composed always, centered, elegant, a burden they forced themself to carry in a world that viewed them as a monster most of the time.
"My good tilvans, listen to me", they said, their voice ever commanding. "As the druids conduct their ritual at the Heart, we will conduct one of our own. This will serve two purposes. First, to reveal the entity and its relic to us, in full. And second, to inflict a sliver of death and decay into that otherwise pristine place. I want to corrupt something pure."
This... was reckless. And the others knew. This wasn't like the Overseer at all, they'd never play such a game when the stakes were so high. But Zoma seemed so confident, perhaps overly so, that in the end they agreed, moved or influenced by the Overseer's new found charisma.
Zoma themself found the idea absurd. Surely not common for a tactician such as them. Yet, it was irresistable. The voices in their head were never wrong, were they? They always spoke true, didn't they? And taking them for their own or The Stranger's, Zomactelonyvarix believed every word. Not realizing, or perhaps unable to, that their connection to the entity in the bay didn't end as the scrying ritual finished...
Not realizing the puppeteer was made puppet, manipulated by the very blight they sought to destroy with the druids by their side. And the druids were getting close, too close... They needed to be stopped. And thus, the once clever strategist was made a mere instrument of vengeance, blind and ignorant to the threads tied to their hands and legs, being controlled by an invisible hand.
* * *
The druids, elves and tilvans joined Maez'zhvro's chanting, as they channeled their thoughts and intents towards the statue of Aldarwen. Zoma didn't join them. They pretended to, but they didn't. A feeling of urgency washed over them each time they tried, and so each time they pulled back. After all, to conserve the illusion of life upon the doll, a puppeteer must conceal themselves. Unseen, despite being in plain sight.
The ritual revealed exactly what the Overseer wanted: the location of the relic, buried deep below the tilvan mines. It was right there, at their reach, all this time. All that untamed power, at an arm's length, up for the taking.
But when the time came for the wyrd ritual, the elves protested. Most, if not all of them, were against it. Could they have seen it? Could they have sensed the entity's grip inside Zoma? The Overseer knew far too well their very presence in that sacred place was sacrilege. But, unaware of their parasite, and perhaps due to its influence, the wizard took the denial as persecution.
And Zoma felt anger, maybe for the first time in years. A flame so strong it burned any rational thought away. Who did they think they were? To stand in their way like that? The meddlers!
The tilvans left the Heart of the Grove, while the elves remained. As they gated back to the tilvan meadows, Zomactelonyvarix stopped their comrades and demanded their attention. The necromancer proceeded to tell a brief history of Jyn-Pal and its elven roots, much to the confusion of the tilvans.
"We are not giving up. We are doing our ritual there, under Jyn-Pal, in the bowels of Hell. We will have our answers. And if, in doing so, we break the seal placed by the ancient elves - all the better. Ride now! To Jyn-Pal!"
* * *
Earth magic. Amidst rock and gravel, the entity's power was strongest. No wonder it led its puppet underground. They breached Jyn-Pal's undead hordes with haste, then the demons of the abandoned mines below, until they found it: the stonehenge with the blood pool, the perfect ritual site.
Watched by the concerned tilvans, Zoma laid the arcane foci down: power crystals and arcane gems, then threw into the blood pool a representation of their craving: a stack of demon bones.
"Zoma...", Gustha called. "You seem... angry. You're never angry."
The Harbinger paused to regard The Herald.
"Angry?", they asked, smiling behind their mask. "No, Gustha, my dear. I am not angry. I am FURIOUS!"
With a wave of their scythe, the crystals glowed, wild arcane energy crackling from them, sapping the arcane gems and infusing the circle with aether. The ritual was underway.
"This is the moment of truth", Zoma continued. "How far would you go for The Stranger? How far would you go FOR ME? Would you BLEED for me?"
The tilvans answered, but Zoma couldn't listen anymore. The Overseer experienced a weird phenomenon, like they were in a carriage, but on the passanger's seat. Like they couldn't control the direction the horses took them. Strange... Strange indeed.
"To sacrifice oneself is the ultimate demonstration of love", Zoma said. "And sacrifices... have power."
Then, Zoma reached up, to the blade of their scythe and ran their palm across the sharp edge, drawing blood and letting it spill into the pool. They offered the blade over, holding the scythe towards their comrades, their heart racing with exhilaration.
"Prove it! Prove it now!"
Each tilvan took their turn in cutting open their palms and bleeding into the pool. The old blackened blood below, mixed with their fresh, red blood, began to boil.
"You honor me, my faithful! Repeat after me!"
And together, they chanted, summoning, invoking, reaching for the other side, reaching for the demonic forces the ancient elves had, through effort and sacrifices of their own, managed to seal ages past.
Once closed, once sealed
A sacrifice for a key
Blood present, to awaken blood past
May the gate that was closed
Open, for all to see!
May the door that was shut
Open, for all to see!
Bound by blood, now unbound
For all to see!
I have seen it
And through me
The Whispered One sees it now!
Suddenly, each crystal shattered violently and the darkness of the caverns encroached. Howling, growling, shrieking could be heard, as a small tear ripped reality apart. And inside... they were waiting.
At the same time, the tilvans were shown a vision. Used to the hallucinations induced by The Stranger, they felt at home. The vision showed a man. And he was holding an object. THE object, the very one and the same buried under Tilverton. An amulet. And it was beautiful and pristine, so void of any corruption that it was unthinkable such relic was behind the blight. Then... the man raised the amulet, drawing power from it, using it for his own desires. A tool. A tool of power. Infinite power. As the amulet shone, the brightness blinded the cabalists and they returned, to find the tear slowly, discreetly, gradually enlarging. A gate. Unseen, hidden by the necromantic wards of the ritual. And in time, it would open in full glory again.
"Behold!", Zoma cried. "Behold the mystery of The Stranger! An open door! For all to see! We must obtain this forgotten relic, my faithful. It must be min--"
They looked at their leader. Zoma paused, looking back.
"Ours", Zoma added. "It must be ours."
They raised their arms, in zealous reverence and marvel, and much to the shock of the others, it seemed like Zomactelonyvarix was...
...Crying?
Despite the tears, there it was again. The laughter.
"Hm hm hm... Hm hm hm ha ha ha... Hm hm ha ha ha HA HA HA! HAAA HA HA HA HA HA HA!"
The sinister laughter echoed through the tunnels, mixing with the wails and hisses of the demons. And for a brief moment, they sounded as one and the same...
* * *
It worked! Or so thought the Overseer...
At first, their scrying for the entity led nowhere, like plunging into the murky waters of the bay. All Zoma saw was darkness. But perhaps... Perhaps the darkness saw them too. Amidst all the blackness, a frail and delicate glint pulsed in the distance; calling out to them, luring them, hungrily. And Zoma, who knew that hunger well, more than anything, plunged deeper, reaching for it...
And just in time, really. They had exhausted all the crystal shards.
Minutes turned into hours; hours into days; days into weeks. The Overseer, often a daily presence in Tilverton's routine, was nowhere to be seen, secluded in their tower. The All-Seeing Eye of The Stranger at the top searched and searched, twitching, shaking, desperate to find Its most loyal and zealous servant; Its Harbinger. Where were the daily sacrifices? The prayers in reverence and terror? The machinations to summon The Whispered One into the Material Plane?
Where was Zomactelonyvarix...?
* * *
Before they traveled to the Grove, Zoma summoned the tilvans for a meeting at Fort Risencrantz. Something was off about the Overseer, but their guild mates couldn't quite tell what. Zoma was emotional and impulsive, two traits the wizard always had considered flaws. To an extent, Zoma was more human than ever, a condition the necromancer was known to despise, among their peers. Everything about mortality used to make Zoma cringe. Flesh was regarded as nothing but a prison.
And yet, there they stood, shifting between varied states of mind; happy and sad, excited and depressed. But most of all: hungry; hungry for power. What had happened? While the Overseer spoke and gave the orders for the day, Gustha, Clyde and Rudyard exchanged glances, never once doubting their leader, but noticing the sudden shift all the same.
And the laughter... Zoma was not one to laugh. At most, a light and discreet chuckle. They were self-restrained and composed always, centered, elegant, a burden they forced themself to carry in a world that viewed them as a monster most of the time.
"My good tilvans, listen to me", they said, their voice ever commanding. "As the druids conduct their ritual at the Heart, we will conduct one of our own. This will serve two purposes. First, to reveal the entity and its relic to us, in full. And second, to inflict a sliver of death and decay into that otherwise pristine place. I want to corrupt something pure."
This... was reckless. And the others knew. This wasn't like the Overseer at all, they'd never play such a game when the stakes were so high. But Zoma seemed so confident, perhaps overly so, that in the end they agreed, moved or influenced by the Overseer's new found charisma.
Zoma themself found the idea absurd. Surely not common for a tactician such as them. Yet, it was irresistable. The voices in their head were never wrong, were they? They always spoke true, didn't they? And taking them for their own or The Stranger's, Zomactelonyvarix believed every word. Not realizing, or perhaps unable to, that their connection to the entity in the bay didn't end as the scrying ritual finished...
Not realizing the puppeteer was made puppet, manipulated by the very blight they sought to destroy with the druids by their side. And the druids were getting close, too close... They needed to be stopped. And thus, the once clever strategist was made a mere instrument of vengeance, blind and ignorant to the threads tied to their hands and legs, being controlled by an invisible hand.
* * *
The druids, elves and tilvans joined Maez'zhvro's chanting, as they channeled their thoughts and intents towards the statue of Aldarwen. Zoma didn't join them. They pretended to, but they didn't. A feeling of urgency washed over them each time they tried, and so each time they pulled back. After all, to conserve the illusion of life upon the doll, a puppeteer must conceal themselves. Unseen, despite being in plain sight.
The ritual revealed exactly what the Overseer wanted: the location of the relic, buried deep below the tilvan mines. It was right there, at their reach, all this time. All that untamed power, at an arm's length, up for the taking.
But when the time came for the wyrd ritual, the elves protested. Most, if not all of them, were against it. Could they have seen it? Could they have sensed the entity's grip inside Zoma? The Overseer knew far too well their very presence in that sacred place was sacrilege. But, unaware of their parasite, and perhaps due to its influence, the wizard took the denial as persecution.
And Zoma felt anger, maybe for the first time in years. A flame so strong it burned any rational thought away. Who did they think they were? To stand in their way like that? The meddlers!
The tilvans left the Heart of the Grove, while the elves remained. As they gated back to the tilvan meadows, Zomactelonyvarix stopped their comrades and demanded their attention. The necromancer proceeded to tell a brief history of Jyn-Pal and its elven roots, much to the confusion of the tilvans.
"We are not giving up. We are doing our ritual there, under Jyn-Pal, in the bowels of Hell. We will have our answers. And if, in doing so, we break the seal placed by the ancient elves - all the better. Ride now! To Jyn-Pal!"
* * *
Earth magic. Amidst rock and gravel, the entity's power was strongest. No wonder it led its puppet underground. They breached Jyn-Pal's undead hordes with haste, then the demons of the abandoned mines below, until they found it: the stonehenge with the blood pool, the perfect ritual site.
Watched by the concerned tilvans, Zoma laid the arcane foci down: power crystals and arcane gems, then threw into the blood pool a representation of their craving: a stack of demon bones.
"Zoma...", Gustha called. "You seem... angry. You're never angry."
The Harbinger paused to regard The Herald.
"Angry?", they asked, smiling behind their mask. "No, Gustha, my dear. I am not angry. I am FURIOUS!"
With a wave of their scythe, the crystals glowed, wild arcane energy crackling from them, sapping the arcane gems and infusing the circle with aether. The ritual was underway.
"This is the moment of truth", Zoma continued. "How far would you go for The Stranger? How far would you go FOR ME? Would you BLEED for me?"
The tilvans answered, but Zoma couldn't listen anymore. The Overseer experienced a weird phenomenon, like they were in a carriage, but on the passanger's seat. Like they couldn't control the direction the horses took them. Strange... Strange indeed.
"To sacrifice oneself is the ultimate demonstration of love", Zoma said. "And sacrifices... have power."
Then, Zoma reached up, to the blade of their scythe and ran their palm across the sharp edge, drawing blood and letting it spill into the pool. They offered the blade over, holding the scythe towards their comrades, their heart racing with exhilaration.
"Prove it! Prove it now!"
Each tilvan took their turn in cutting open their palms and bleeding into the pool. The old blackened blood below, mixed with their fresh, red blood, began to boil.
"You honor me, my faithful! Repeat after me!"
And together, they chanted, summoning, invoking, reaching for the other side, reaching for the demonic forces the ancient elves had, through effort and sacrifices of their own, managed to seal ages past.
Once closed, once sealed
A sacrifice for a key
Blood present, to awaken blood past
May the gate that was closed
Open, for all to see!
May the door that was shut
Open, for all to see!
Bound by blood, now unbound
For all to see!
I have seen it
And through me
The Whispered One sees it now!
Suddenly, each crystal shattered violently and the darkness of the caverns encroached. Howling, growling, shrieking could be heard, as a small tear ripped reality apart. And inside... they were waiting.
At the same time, the tilvans were shown a vision. Used to the hallucinations induced by The Stranger, they felt at home. The vision showed a man. And he was holding an object. THE object, the very one and the same buried under Tilverton. An amulet. And it was beautiful and pristine, so void of any corruption that it was unthinkable such relic was behind the blight. Then... the man raised the amulet, drawing power from it, using it for his own desires. A tool. A tool of power. Infinite power. As the amulet shone, the brightness blinded the cabalists and they returned, to find the tear slowly, discreetly, gradually enlarging. A gate. Unseen, hidden by the necromantic wards of the ritual. And in time, it would open in full glory again.
"Behold!", Zoma cried. "Behold the mystery of The Stranger! An open door! For all to see! We must obtain this forgotten relic, my faithful. It must be min--"
They looked at their leader. Zoma paused, looking back.
"Ours", Zoma added. "It must be ours."
They raised their arms, in zealous reverence and marvel, and much to the shock of the others, it seemed like Zomactelonyvarix was...
...Crying?
Despite the tears, there it was again. The laughter.
"Hm hm hm... Hm hm hm ha ha ha... Hm hm ha ha ha HA HA HA! HAAA HA HA HA HA HA HA!"
The sinister laughter echoed through the tunnels, mixing with the wails and hisses of the demons. And for a brief moment, they sounded as one and the same...
Last edited by Wyrd on Tue Jul 22, 2025 1:49 am, edited 4 times in total.
Re: Triverton Waters Run Deep (Event Thread, all Welcome)
Exhaustion. Faelith felt it deep within her bones and in truth there were many events in the past week that could have contributed. Reports of missing wildlife in the South with no exact cause despite trusted and competent rangers investigating. The matter of Triverton also weighed heavily on her mind. The situation there was reminding her more and more of the tragedies that had befallen the Elven woman prior to returning to Arandor. There was also the matter of the personal call for aid from one of her brethren. While she had met with him and Cin’ead about what could be done, part of her feared that all she had learned and worked for with plants, herbs, healing magic would not be enough… still. All of these new responsibilities had come to her with the title of Lifebringer, and despite the nagging self doubts she was determined to see each of these through. Still, tonight these were not the things that wore Faelith to the bone.
Those who had seen her earlier that evening probably thought the cause of her fatigue to be the mission to slay one of the Chromatic dragons, but the truth was she had welcomed it. Welcomed the feel of a mace in her grip and the heat from lightning as the little sparks set off in chains around them after each draconian follower fell to the squad. She had needed the opportunity to blow off steam. Despite her laid back demeanor when they’d met before the mission.. Faelith inwardly had been seething.
The meeting just before the mission had meant only to catch her up on the happenings in The Sacred Grove. Honestly she didn’t expect them to receive a response. They had, after all, already been given one from Aldarwen during the ritual, and in Faelith’s mind going there to ask her for more information without further investigation felt disrespectful. That was why she had not gone. Now she wished she had…
Instead of a simple report touting the failing or success of the druidic request, she had learned that a -necromancer- had been allowed… nay… invited into the Sacred Grove of Aldarwen. It was outrageous! Had the mad druid forsaken the lessons of their kin? Had he learned nothing from the Age of Chaos? Could he possibly believe that the revival of the water and land beneath Triverton could justify risking such a blessed space? Could they not have done the ritual without that -man- present? How dare he!
It was with great difficulty that she had restrained her emotions, forcing them down as she recalled the words of a mentor. Did she want to charge out of there, hunt the adle brained muffin eater down and beat some sense into him with her mace? Absolutely! However, the words of a certain Wood Elf mentor, or perhaps tormentor was a more apt title, rang through her head.
Later that evening, when the quiet of her home left too much room for emotions and thoughts, she had torn the place apart. Every plant, every shelf, every counter and container had been ripped from their placement. Then began the slow process moving everything into their new arrangement, a process that took hours but somehow soothed her nerves. It was as if each furnishing was a piece of her own shattered emotions that she was piecing back together. When the home was once again settled, so finally was her mind.
Then, in the silence of the night, she drew a quill and paper to beseeching action before falling dead asleep on her stool, arms crossed for a pillow atop one of the newly arranged workspaces.
Tomorrow she would go to the Grove, and see for herself that all was well. Then… then she would do all within her powers to see that such an infraction upon their beloved Vala of the Verdant Heart never again occurred.
Those who had seen her earlier that evening probably thought the cause of her fatigue to be the mission to slay one of the Chromatic dragons, but the truth was she had welcomed it. Welcomed the feel of a mace in her grip and the heat from lightning as the little sparks set off in chains around them after each draconian follower fell to the squad. She had needed the opportunity to blow off steam. Despite her laid back demeanor when they’d met before the mission.. Faelith inwardly had been seething.
The meeting just before the mission had meant only to catch her up on the happenings in The Sacred Grove. Honestly she didn’t expect them to receive a response. They had, after all, already been given one from Aldarwen during the ritual, and in Faelith’s mind going there to ask her for more information without further investigation felt disrespectful. That was why she had not gone. Now she wished she had…
Instead of a simple report touting the failing or success of the druidic request, she had learned that a -necromancer- had been allowed… nay… invited into the Sacred Grove of Aldarwen. It was outrageous! Had the mad druid forsaken the lessons of their kin? Had he learned nothing from the Age of Chaos? Could he possibly believe that the revival of the water and land beneath Triverton could justify risking such a blessed space? Could they not have done the ritual without that -man- present? How dare he!
It was with great difficulty that she had restrained her emotions, forcing them down as she recalled the words of a mentor. Did she want to charge out of there, hunt the adle brained muffin eater down and beat some sense into him with her mace? Absolutely! However, the words of a certain Wood Elf mentor, or perhaps tormentor was a more apt title, rang through her head.
The wild storm would come, yes, but she would not let it choose the path. So, in an effort to force her own emotions to kneel, she had joined the dragon hunt as both distraction and outlet.“You think the wild makes us strong because we let ourselves go? No. The wild makes us strong because we learn when not to. A storm can clear dead wood—or tear down the whole forest if it rages too long. I’ve buried friends who couldn’t tell the difference.
Feel what you feel. But don’t let it speak for you. Not until you’ve made it kneel.
The beast that lives in you isn’t your enemy—but it damn well shouldn’t be your guide.”
Later that evening, when the quiet of her home left too much room for emotions and thoughts, she had torn the place apart. Every plant, every shelf, every counter and container had been ripped from their placement. Then began the slow process moving everything into their new arrangement, a process that took hours but somehow soothed her nerves. It was as if each furnishing was a piece of her own shattered emotions that she was piecing back together. When the home was once again settled, so finally was her mind.
Then, in the silence of the night, she drew a quill and paper to beseeching action before falling dead asleep on her stool, arms crossed for a pillow atop one of the newly arranged workspaces.
Tomorrow she would go to the Grove, and see for herself that all was well. Then… then she would do all within her powers to see that such an infraction upon their beloved Vala of the Verdant Heart never again occurred.
Re: Triverton Waters Run Deep (Event Thread, all Welcome)
Oralil Moonshadow, the young swordswoman recently moved to Arandor, watched the hulking blue haired elf walk away... hoping that his mouth would not be the death of her new friend. As she realized she had one of those, her lips curled faintly into a smile. Somehow, despite her awkward ways, she had managed to make a friend.
Perhaps due to her preoccupation with this realization, she didn't notice at first as the Elf woman with a pipe wandered over and greeted her and Sylas. She was... unique. The way she spoke made Oralil's High Elf logic cringe, with smelling colors that were emotions. Still, there was something of the seemingly nonsensical chatter that appealed to her father's lineage... and made her curious, though still utterly confused. If nothing else, the encounter had completely confirmed that she was correct in pledging herself to Verilion's Sentinals rather than Seraphiel's Mystic Veil. She was -not- cut out for interpreting such things.
It was during this interaction that it came out that the Elendir had a disturbing vision that she was here to share with someone more important than herself. After a long back and forth during which Oralil came to be utterly confused of the other woman's definition of importance, it was decided that Oralil and Sylas would receive the vision and pass it along to those who needed to know.
Perhaps due to her preoccupation with this realization, she didn't notice at first as the Elf woman with a pipe wandered over and greeted her and Sylas. She was... unique. The way she spoke made Oralil's High Elf logic cringe, with smelling colors that were emotions. Still, there was something of the seemingly nonsensical chatter that appealed to her father's lineage... and made her curious, though still utterly confused. If nothing else, the encounter had completely confirmed that she was correct in pledging herself to Verilion's Sentinals rather than Seraphiel's Mystic Veil. She was -not- cut out for interpreting such things.
It was during this interaction that it came out that the Elendir had a disturbing vision that she was here to share with someone more important than herself. After a long back and forth during which Oralil came to be utterly confused of the other woman's definition of importance, it was decided that Oralil and Sylas would receive the vision and pass it along to those who needed to know.
And so with even more confusion than before, Oralil returned home to rest. The following day she would report the vision to The Magistrate and The Sentinals of Verilion, head of her Order, in the hopes that they would better know what to do with the information. She wished them luck... they would need it."It began in silence---not peace, but the kind that presses on your bones.
Then came the wind singing in colors I couldn't see only taste---
Green like copper and violet like smoke that burned behind the eyes I did not have.
There was no sky, no ground, just the slow steady pulse of something vast and unseen.
Then, everything stopped--- and I felt it... watching.
Not cruel, not kind. Just... watching.
Something -beyond- the veil, not part of the vision.
Something beyond it, looking in."