Broken Branches - The Starweaver

[Grey-Moth]

"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.
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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.))

[Grey-Moth]

A reckoning had been brought. Long and overdue, perhaps to those viewing outside the druids. But when a gathering of people stands longer then even Sundren's founding, patience is a ally.

Thresh was hardly surprised to crack her eyes open, and find the night sky of the swamps over-head. She recognized every smell that was present, from the bog's bubbling, to the rotting flesh of unearthed grave dirt. But one stood out much more clearly then the rest.

That scent was blood. The copper like tang stung her eyes, briefly panicked she'd been cut down while she was out cold, but no wound had pierced her frail and battered frame.

Gold eyes opened to a scene of utter destruction. The first before her, the dead Hand of the left tower. Her heart felt calm, but her body still moved with reflex, shaking off her concussion quickly to absorb her surroundings.

Part of her had regretted that decision quite immediately. All she found, was quite often all there ever was in these swamps. Death. Death in droves. Men-at-arms lay dead so thickly, the ground beneath was nearly indistinguishable as a mass of broken flesh, blades, and shields.

Ears still ringing, only her keener senses as an elf heard the words of their still standing ally, the mage of the Right standing. Battered, wounded. But prepared to stand with them to the last, to maintain their portal home.

She never had any love for the Triad, truly. Well... for one, she did. But human gods are human gods for a reason, so tightly niche'd that their concepts in all. The three's paladins had quite often treated anyone outside of their circles poorly, she could still recall days that she had been never more offended in her life then by men and women of cloth tarrying around the Second Wind Inn, whilst callously slinging judgement and slander alike at everyone around them.

But that day, they may have been her brothers and sisters for their actions and deeds. They held the line. And though so many Lionhearts lay dead, she felt no pity, or judgement for them now. She'd come too far to do such things, anymore.

She just thanked them. The best she could, she thanked them all. Truly each one would find their bravery rewarded in the world to come, as shining examples of true grit, valor and integrity. Though nature is callous, and uncaring. Thresh did plea with her to grow the moss across their bodies. To move the earth atop their frames. Save them, from the eyes of the world.

Save them from the greedy, hateful grasps of the hordes pouring for them. Save them, for their loyalty in the decisions of a flee'ing elf absorbing a blow across a stone-skin ward that still shook her footing and made the stretch back to their portal home, that little bit further.

Just save them. As the entire gathering spat out in the ruins of yet another, older war.

Swallow them whole, their dead, and return them to their true homes. For they are all her children, fed upon wheat and water, upon flesh. Let them slip away under the comfort of the earth, and far, far away from this life of dizzying values, and needless wars.

From this bleak, stark reminder. Of society's play, at pretending they can avoid the clashes of violence in a air of 'civilization'. Her attention was drawn to thought. Not even Emberstrife fully held her attentions, save to grant her a panged, guilt-stricken chord in her stomach at the promises of rewards.

What did she care for a reward. She did her work, as everyone else did. What did she care for what the Emperor could offer? She held doubts in her mind that they would honor their agreement altogether. What did she care.

No. As much as joy boiled in her veins for victory... detached interest was all she could offer the Magi, and his promises of gains to a woman that lives in the middle of the woods. That needs little coin, and little food. And she is happy for her little bit of life, as he departs. Not to be complicated, by the commanding voice of Hands of Mundus, or officers of Legion uniforms.

What could they offer, that wasn't achieved today? She couldn't fathom. Beyond politeness, there was no reason to go though, politeness would still beckon her back to Sundren, at some point. Not today. Not for them.

As a very weary little elf trotted, flanked by allies watching the odd quiet of the world around them. No birds to sing, no snakes to hiss or even wolves to howl. Thresh could only bring one thing to mind.

"I should like to. Never again taste. War on these lips. Never again."

Her journey detoured strangely from the other druids. From her home. There was a angel blooded woman who cried out like a wounded bird in her mind, and the inner peace of the elf could not be found until he found her. Until he found Gabrielle, to say the things that were so meaningless. Apologies. Regrets. But most of all, to save her from her own heavy heart and mind.

((Probably more, I dunno. Also, I suck hard at past and present tense.))

[Grey-Moth]

The Starweaver; Pt. 1

Several days felt like years sweeping over The Starweaver's camp.

The Starweaver. She held the title. Measured it, what it should mean. What people would say of it. The expectant looks to reveal her birth given name.

Thresh had lost a taste of many things. Words had a new purpose when your most common company was that of a stag, or a rabbit. Yet another reason people would talk, of the crazy elf in the woods with one arm. Telling ghost stories, and speaking to rabbits, granting them titles in some imaginary kingdom she'd constructed in her mind where the court was filled with prey animals, and half her own food went to sustain them in these troubling times of poachers, Exigo loggers, and the noisy clangorous boots of plate-mailed idiots, stomping the dirt into tighter roads.

Thresh had returned to seclusion, alongside Gabrielle. Retrieved from the Triadic temple where nothing but haunting memories, and the mournful seeking new purpose from the gods now remained. The bustle of life, song and lesson had been reduced to a few solemn gazes across stone, knowing glances over pews. It'd driven the elf mad, to realize she'd killed so many loved ones of loved ones. Indifference was easy to have, when watching a wolf devour a rabbit, or bear tear into a gnoll, but this. This was people.

And people are fragile things. And when the common beats of waking up, and seeking prayer are disrupted realizing the bench beside you is empty. The one before you, empty. The one behind you, empty. Where once you congregated with twenty, thirty, a hundred, a -thousand-...

Thresh had to turn away as soon as possible. Before the guilt had her upon the same pews, praying to human gods her quiet apologies. They would have been meaningless, to the last. Sympathy did not draw her from knowing what they had done was right, and necessary. Leave, before anyone could recognize that one armed elf that came to them with promises of a lasting victory.

Run, from their complication. And return to the forest.


Elves, by their very nature in reverie, require less sleep then humans. Thresh? She required even less. Somehow a mat on the ground had provided her years of rest where beds had never quieted her nerves, where her naked sprawling could still feel the grass blades running along her one and only arm. Somehow, even when the roof of her tent would leak and drip, it was such a calming sound for her long and pointed ear to fixate onto.

It left her with time to reflect. Not mourn, only reflect. To mourn would have been pointless. The past now brought to her understanding of life and people. To just... think. She had all the time in the world, now, to think. In between entertaining the rare visitor for herself with tea, or granting boons and wards to the noisy coin chasers in the forest. But they were young. She was young. Everyone, truly, is young beneath the branches of trees planted by earth covered hands to foster the world.

"Thresh is such a. Violent name, I think..."

The elf voiced her mind to the newt that had joined her shoulder, staring out into the expanse of Leira's rolling beauty. The fog just dense enough to shroud the forest and roll with the surreal nature of vapor along the tree limbs without enveloping the night sky in her embrace. Perfect. Beautiful and pristine. Sacred. Even the mists had become her comfort, here. The clever animal knowing that what you can not see does not always seek to end you. That sometimes, the prey may stroll right past the predator if it knows just. How. To walk.

"Such a violent word. Truly. Striking grain away. From chaff. Cutting. Destruction. Burning... I can scarcely conceive. A more malice filled word, then that of. 'Thresh'."

The newt, formerly dubbed 'Duchess' in another of Thresh's bouts of adoration brought her head before the elf's. A short sticky tongue dabbed her chin, forcing The Starweaver to smile quietly in appreciation, reaching to stroke the amphibian's head beneath a single finger and speak in soothing tone.

"Now now. Don't worry... I've long ago lost. The unease that brought me to. Hate myself, so much. Hate everything, and everyone... but. Don't you think? You think it's time? I believe so."

A peculiar intelligence was in these animals. A sense of empathy in each creature, normally stirred to run and flee, or gnash and bite at the visitors of her woods. It constantly aroused her suspicion that perhaps, in the end. Though for lacking thumbs, and the desire to build taller and taller buildings, every natural creature that can draw breath, may also draw a opinion.

"It's just time. Time to let it. All go. Even Gabrielle. Has begun to shed the past. And I have to concentrate. On the future. How can a 'Thresh'. Achieve such things? Without force? She can not. ... but a Starweaver. A legend? Even if illusory. Don't you think it's time?"

Thresh lifted her palm, to scoop the fat-tailed lizard up and let its small feet fall and 'hug' the side of her face. Amusement filled the elf, not minding the cool skin of the salamander bringing its belly to her cheek while hanging off of her as some exotic fashion of jewelry before storming a quick trail up her ear. Maybe Duchess, like herself, shared a love of the night sky and star-gazing. Regardless, this quiet gentleness was something she'd begun to slip on like a glove where stags would come to lay with her, and rabbits would come right up to her leg. Bumping their wriggling noses to her shin in want of a pet. To get to know this creature that was more part of their world, then anywhere else.

"I can hear them. Stirred up again. The damned Mossclaw alliance... I suppose another mercenary. Has come to collect bounty. I can hear them. The Exigo, as well. They sound like coins. Everything they do is so soulless... I can't even hate them. I pity them. Infact, I must protect them. From the... druid of blight. From the shadow dragon. All while scolding them back, so politely. These woods have lost their magic. No one fears them, anymore. Not the Hand. Not the armed, and the armored. No one... they think they know our little woods. Every nook and cranny. But part of me, at night. I can hear just beyond the Mossclaw. I hear things terrifying. Stirring. Dark, and menacing. And they feel angry, to me."

Perhaps it had been the last flecks of paranoia the elf needed to undo of herself. But the Viridale, and the Mossdale both, were places of ancient woods but for the paths beaten clear by handfuls of boots, passing every day. Who could blame them? Familiarity brought with it the ability to presume they knew these woods as much as a druid, and perhaps if they listened just right. That might be the case.

But they did not. The word 'Sacred' had no meaning, when it came to a handful of trees. And still, she could not hate any of them. Only pity them, as the adventures of life had been taken for granted over, and over and over again. Until the illusions of the world had been spread apart, and nearly undone because people had thought. They 'knew' what was there.

"I think it's time. To lose that last bit of weight, Duchess. Don't you think?"

The lizard had traveled its way down Thresh's neck, and into her robes. The elf merely crooked her head as much as it would take to let the tiny feet of her amphibian break a trail down her neck to shoulder, until its small features were back in the elf's right hand. Perched, and with tail half wrapped as a ring about her finger. It only made Thresh smile, and feel the slightest bit more comfort.

"You probably didn't know. But many have asked, before. Thresh isn't a elven name. It's a slave's name. And though my stomach pangs, and my heart wrenches. I think it's time that we. Said good-bye, to that life forever. It's time to make everything. Sacred again. Baptize it all in mists. ... to make life. Fun again. To make these woods. The home of both monsters. Heroes. But most of all? Of mysteries."

The Starweaver brought the newt to her lips, and stroked her tiny companion. Just along the ridge of her freckled nose where wide gold eyes met the peculiar swirled colors of the animal's.

"It pains me to say. But not in the way one feels pain. When they do something wrong. The way one feels pain. When they realize. They're saying good-bye to something. Something they've always known. And though they never loved it? They'll cry, all the same. Because they're scared. ... I'm done. Being scared. I'm done. Being hateful. And I'm done. Feeling haunted."

Thresh's voice briefly croaked with a onset of tears. But her shoulders didn't shake, nor her nostrils flare with sniffing. She thought a scene would break from her body, but the elf was surprised even by herself as she murmured.

"I am Thresh no more... but I will take that name. Starweaver. I will make it grand, and ancient. I will make it mine. I will miss Thresh... I will miss. The familiarity. And though I claim. No grander change, then by nature. I have accomplished the impossible. I have led, and I have plotted. I have changed, though no grander. Then by my nature."

[Grey-Moth]

The Starweaver; Pt. 2 (Concluded)

The tears stopped, and the knot in her stomach soon relaxed. The ghosts of the Triad and the Legion began to float away. She could see their forms inside the rolling fog banks. Where once her paranoia would have bent their faces into hideous depictions of hate, and judgement. They were just witnesses, today.

She had not lost her senses. She did not squint her eyes, to make them. They were all there, around her. Legion, and Triad. Good men. Bad men. Men that only ever wanted to survive. The greedy. The giving. The beautiful, and the ugly.

"I am The Starweaver. And my world is sacred. I. Am sacred."

The moon's light pierced the Viridale, not upon her though. Just along the stream beside her camp, where she'd drawn water so often for her cups of tea. This was no sign of divine recognition. This was not the indifferent forest acknowledging her metamorphosis.

This was just the world turning, and moving. But for the first time in her life. She could feel herself moving alongside it. And The Starweaver's lips grinned quietly, as she moved with the world beneath her feet.