"To think this all. Could start with a. Few sleeves of parchment. And a few signatures."
Personal revelation had become as common place to the small elf these days as sunrises were common to every morning. Her body still sore from the intensity of the day before, and though a new stillness could be sensed in the woods. There was a great gap within it. A confusing place, between a sigh of relief and a moment of silence in mourning.
Greagrios Whiteflame lay dead, somewhere. There was no doubt in her mind that the gruff old papa bear of Tuatha De Dulraa had fallen in so brave a display of self sacrifice as any tale spun from a bard. No bard would be hired for this, though. Elder Whiteflame would've never wanted that. He was a dignified man. Not the fodder of drunk sailors listening to a bard off-key.
No. He deserved to be remembered by those he cared for. And to remain as anonymous to those outside these woods as all the Tuatha's duties, knowledge and wisdom are. Locked behind sacred groves and rites. Beneath the creeping ivy, and behind the eyes of the clever, watchful ravens.
Nora had been right. His death would remain not their burden. But a reason to sing in thanks his name, as the man who died protecting his seers. His acolytes.
His children.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The scene was far too fresh to not recollect each detail of his departure. Though it carried far less sting each time, like every tear she shed was a drop of mud across his image, staining what he did.
He lied to her. And she still couldn't find it in her to say one complaint for his lie, to sorrowfully howl at the moon until a man that would never come, returned home to his woods. She couldn't.
"And then you'll. Return to us... yes?"
Few times did she feel as equals with her elders. Staring a meaningful glance to Greagrios, how he stumbled with his words for a moment. How he hesitated to make eye contact.
"... of course, child."
It was no good-bye, though she knew he wanted to say it. She knew it, and she knew why. No matter what, the mission had to continue. The Black Hand's grip on the ley had to be destroyed. So she smiled softly, and dipped her head.
"Then we shall. See you ahead."
And so, she lied to him in kind. While covering her tears, and burying her good-byes as they approached that too familiar statue of Bane's might, glaring down upon a pair of druids. And how the last thing on her mind, was a trace of fear for Bane.
No. Bane was to fear -them-. In the heart of his home, in the cradle of the Black Hand's power. The seers of mystics hundreds of years old, never having sold their souls for such things as petty vanity, and desires of power. They were to be feared. Not the swarm of death hounding them past a simple door, no. They would fear the Tuatha De Dulraa. Here, to do the impossible.
And nature, in her indifference. Would not care what pleas they spoke. Would not care what cries of rage echoed the halls. Nature would not care. And neither would her warriors.
She recalled every reason she began with, to want this destruction. Her disgust of the death worshiping humans. Past them, the self-indulgent hedonistic vampires. And past them, the cruel heels of oppressive administration. And now, not a single one of those reasons seemed to matter anymore. Above all else today, nature would show that balance was never to be disrupted again. That even old wounds once thought gangrenous, may yet be closed by the seers of a ancient power.
The small elf, and a small Rashemi woman poured their wills together. And that force so ancient recognized her warriors, and bid them deeper into the ley. Into the nexus, beyond the mortal plane. The sound of running water was first to pierce the distorted haze that came with ley portals. That moment where your body first feels crushed, and stretched. And then your consciousness distorted by 'singularity'. But next came the smell. Clean, and endless water.
And as a small group approached a crystalline prison. Far, far away from the realms of mortals, into powers more vast then all of them. More vast then the sympathy she felt for one beautiful, and cruelly tortured creature beneath glass. It was far greater then the pang of guilt she felt in her heart, sacrificing this warped creature that had once been so beautiful, purer then the most pious of mortals. Purity in that had no notions of madness in its soul, until these Black hearted fools toyed with powers beyond their small. Small. Minds.
Their tiny. Pathetic. Wars. To rule over lands that would outlive them all. To be owned by their desires. What was it that Thresh really did, as her rapier struck down the Siud? As this beautiful creature, so earthly, and yet unearthly, that the elf thought she had stared upon Chauntea's own beautiful visage. Her verdant nature made manifest.
No, it wasn't just her. Though a myriad of hopes to dissuade her struck the elf's ears, of relocating this corruption so deep to rehabilitate. Of releasing her, in hope that balance could be restored.
There was no choice. As her rapier pierced, all there would be is freedom for the valley. A return, as Mystra was given back what had been taken from her. Freedom, even for the Black Hand. Too foolish to know what they had done, something so immeasurably irreversible, so perverse as to threaten not just the ley and Sundren, but even their own pathetic existences as corruption continued to spread from this point. Freedom from ignorance, for many that looked on. Every bit as children, witnessing.
And these forces so dizzying did reply to them, with a blast of force stronger then a catapult's arm in swinging motion. Thresh felt herself in flight, and the world go black as crystal clear waterfalls drowned her hearing from her own yelp of surprise.
((More to come when time allows.))
Personal revelation had become as common place to the small elf these days as sunrises were common to every morning. Her body still sore from the intensity of the day before, and though a new stillness could be sensed in the woods. There was a great gap within it. A confusing place, between a sigh of relief and a moment of silence in mourning.
Greagrios Whiteflame lay dead, somewhere. There was no doubt in her mind that the gruff old papa bear of Tuatha De Dulraa had fallen in so brave a display of self sacrifice as any tale spun from a bard. No bard would be hired for this, though. Elder Whiteflame would've never wanted that. He was a dignified man. Not the fodder of drunk sailors listening to a bard off-key.
No. He deserved to be remembered by those he cared for. And to remain as anonymous to those outside these woods as all the Tuatha's duties, knowledge and wisdom are. Locked behind sacred groves and rites. Beneath the creeping ivy, and behind the eyes of the clever, watchful ravens.
Nora had been right. His death would remain not their burden. But a reason to sing in thanks his name, as the man who died protecting his seers. His acolytes.
His children.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The scene was far too fresh to not recollect each detail of his departure. Though it carried far less sting each time, like every tear she shed was a drop of mud across his image, staining what he did.
He lied to her. And she still couldn't find it in her to say one complaint for his lie, to sorrowfully howl at the moon until a man that would never come, returned home to his woods. She couldn't.
"And then you'll. Return to us... yes?"
Few times did she feel as equals with her elders. Staring a meaningful glance to Greagrios, how he stumbled with his words for a moment. How he hesitated to make eye contact.
"... of course, child."
It was no good-bye, though she knew he wanted to say it. She knew it, and she knew why. No matter what, the mission had to continue. The Black Hand's grip on the ley had to be destroyed. So she smiled softly, and dipped her head.
"Then we shall. See you ahead."
And so, she lied to him in kind. While covering her tears, and burying her good-byes as they approached that too familiar statue of Bane's might, glaring down upon a pair of druids. And how the last thing on her mind, was a trace of fear for Bane.
No. Bane was to fear -them-. In the heart of his home, in the cradle of the Black Hand's power. The seers of mystics hundreds of years old, never having sold their souls for such things as petty vanity, and desires of power. They were to be feared. Not the swarm of death hounding them past a simple door, no. They would fear the Tuatha De Dulraa. Here, to do the impossible.
And nature, in her indifference. Would not care what pleas they spoke. Would not care what cries of rage echoed the halls. Nature would not care. And neither would her warriors.
She recalled every reason she began with, to want this destruction. Her disgust of the death worshiping humans. Past them, the self-indulgent hedonistic vampires. And past them, the cruel heels of oppressive administration. And now, not a single one of those reasons seemed to matter anymore. Above all else today, nature would show that balance was never to be disrupted again. That even old wounds once thought gangrenous, may yet be closed by the seers of a ancient power.
The small elf, and a small Rashemi woman poured their wills together. And that force so ancient recognized her warriors, and bid them deeper into the ley. Into the nexus, beyond the mortal plane. The sound of running water was first to pierce the distorted haze that came with ley portals. That moment where your body first feels crushed, and stretched. And then your consciousness distorted by 'singularity'. But next came the smell. Clean, and endless water.
And as a small group approached a crystalline prison. Far, far away from the realms of mortals, into powers more vast then all of them. More vast then the sympathy she felt for one beautiful, and cruelly tortured creature beneath glass. It was far greater then the pang of guilt she felt in her heart, sacrificing this warped creature that had once been so beautiful, purer then the most pious of mortals. Purity in that had no notions of madness in its soul, until these Black hearted fools toyed with powers beyond their small. Small. Minds.
Their tiny. Pathetic. Wars. To rule over lands that would outlive them all. To be owned by their desires. What was it that Thresh really did, as her rapier struck down the Siud? As this beautiful creature, so earthly, and yet unearthly, that the elf thought she had stared upon Chauntea's own beautiful visage. Her verdant nature made manifest.
No, it wasn't just her. Though a myriad of hopes to dissuade her struck the elf's ears, of relocating this corruption so deep to rehabilitate. Of releasing her, in hope that balance could be restored.
There was no choice. As her rapier pierced, all there would be is freedom for the valley. A return, as Mystra was given back what had been taken from her. Freedom, even for the Black Hand. Too foolish to know what they had done, something so immeasurably irreversible, so perverse as to threaten not just the ley and Sundren, but even their own pathetic existences as corruption continued to spread from this point. Freedom from ignorance, for many that looked on. Every bit as children, witnessing.
And these forces so dizzying did reply to them, with a blast of force stronger then a catapult's arm in swinging motion. Thresh felt herself in flight, and the world go black as crystal clear waterfalls drowned her hearing from her own yelp of surprise.
((More to come when time allows.))
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