When Pale Furies Strike [Nim - Goddess Charybdis]

[Chrysannia Syl'lithar]

Season of Winter Era II
Era XVI Post Fractum
Month of Kalendryas
Brightening 43

Chrysannia lounged in a rather large camping chair around a small fire just to the south of the hamlet of Bria. The fire large enough just to keep the slight winter chill in the air from becoming too much. Winters in the north of Arakmat were not known to grow much too cold but they were still wet and with the wet came the cold. No rain or wet snow fell on the Lady as she sat in her chair yet the skies threatened to produce some at the slightest provocation, heavy and grey were they.

The Sylrosian had not been in the location for very long having just arrived over a candlemark herself. Travel from her home of Starsong Keep was not very long as the Quel'anthasan-like towers were situated near the southern border of magical Tawnleaf. It would have taken her less time to make the travel if she had not deamed it appropriate to skirt the small hamlet of Bria. The annoying settlement had become a regular part of the New Syl'rosya and she wanted little to do with it. Moreso she didn't want any of the Guardians of the Forest that were known to be stationed there to ask her questions, not that she wold answer them, she just had very little patience with them and their leader.

That damnable city guard was the leader of the new rag-tag band of protectors. If she had not heard it from more than one mouth Chrys would not have believed any of it.To think that the Aeternia Blessed Heart of the Forest would have chosen him to lead her guardians. Hah! Even the thought was ridiculous to her. Then again, this Kian or whatever she deigned to call herself didn't seem like she had the best interests of the valley in mind. For all anyone knew she was but a servent of the Aeternians in a guise of tranquility that would one day destroy them all. It made all too much sense to Chrys.

Of course She must be some thrall of the Aeternians how else was the Blackbarch able to be controlled so easily? According to rumors there were no longer any wards in place and it was kept in check by the Heart. It just didn't make any sense at all, clearly She was not as tranquil and good doing as her brainwashed followers thought she was. Heart of the Forest, there are three forests and one woodland, one of them very dark and considered evil. If she was the embodiement of all of them then there must be something very sinister about her that She was not letting others see.

Kian was not fooling Chrysannia as easily as she had pulled the wool over the eyes of the rest of the valley populace. Be it that Chrys was more paranoid than most of the others simply for the fact that upon her return her 'throne' had been usurped by this mysterious entity. Over the last few cycles since her return she had gone over every single option in her head and every possibility to every option. It caused her to lose many candlemarks of rest, she hardly ate anything and she only seemed to move around others when she had need to learn more. Every single scrap of information that was voiced by any elf, human, fae or treant she weaved into her tapestry of paranoid thoughts and dreams.

Her absent eyes traced the sparks that jumped into the sky as she thought of all of this. Her thoughts were her constant companion since her return, they never bored her. Not a single word of any of her private thoughts having been spoken to a single member of her household. Chrys would have told but a few souls of her innermost thoughts, yet they seemed to be missing. Her bestfriends, Siaren and Jaraelium, one Cousin and one Lover she was unable to gleen any information about their whereabouts. She feared that they had been lost to wherever the Elves of Syl'rosya had traveled to when the Veil had fallen around it.

Chrysannia had made up her mind that if they truly had not returned from that place that one day she would find a way to go to them. If it took her going through Aeternia, Aetheria and every single other plane of being in the Multiverse she would find them. She would find them and she would bring them home, a home that was like the one they had known in the past. Chrys would protect them from the damnable Syl'rosya that was her current bane. Safeguard them against the trials that she knew were going to hit like a tidal wave when she finally put her plans into motion.

There was one still living within the Valley that she knew she could trust moreso than any other being currently living on Telath. The two of them had been through plenty in the past that required them to know much more than was known to the public. It was because of past trials that Chrys had contacted him and had asked him to meet her now. She hoped that like her he had returned home and was disgruntled but what he found and would remain true to The Combine and true to their homeland, the real Syl'rosya, the True and Last Elfhame within the confines of the human kingdom.

"Nimavel Mynendil." Chrysannia mouthed the Lords name as she repositioned herself in the chair. Wrapping the fur blanket tighter around herself to aid in keeping the winter chill out of her bones. She was dressed appropriately for the weather and for travelling, a greyblue woolen tunic with wooden and silver buttons, black trousers and shin high leather boots.

The blanket, chair and other provisions had been brought along by means of the single household servent that she had brought with her. The lone Elf was no longer in site as Chrys had sent him off to hunt or do whatever he pleased. Chrys was unafraid of being alone unlike she had been before, there was nothing for her to fear anymore, death didn't scare her like it once had. So she sat languidly alone before the campfire, the small light playing across her marble features and reflecting in her eyes.

[Nimavel Mynendil]

A sinister pair of almond-shaped eyes set upon the lounging maiden, tracing the contours of her noble albeit aggrieved visage and studying the languid posture that penned volumes of her anxieties. The owner of the lavender orbs, however, did not approach the unaware woman, but rather lingered in the shadows gifted by the winter-emaciated trees. His silence was telltale of his perpetual professionalism, which had pervaded every facet of his life, both business and recreational. He was mildly ashamed, though, that the maiden’s summoning had mitigated his prior outrage at discovering that the current abyss that was had supplanted the Syl’rosya of old. Notwithstanding his candid relief at learning that at least one of his acquaintances had survived was no excuse to surrender to pitiful emotion.

He would pardon the error just this once.

The elf lord’s lavender orbs gleamed as the wind projected Chrysannia’s words into his elongated ears. He had not heard anyone articulate his real name in many seasons, lending credence to the veritable reality that he truly was the best at what he did. More than one provincial leader had fallen prey to the assassin’s whims, and what’s more, none of their baffling deaths had been resolved – and nor would they ever. The Syl’rosyan Lord almost prided himself at the thought, only strict discipline subdued the notion before it could fully manifest in his mind. Pride was the assassin’s greatest adversary. His hands, now horribly scarred and raw, were testamentary to that. In fact, had a deftly aligned punch not struck true many a season ago in the Serewood, the Archmage Lich’s spell would surely have rendered the assassin an unrecognizable mound of flesh.

Pride. He would have none of it.

“Arwen.”

The assassin’s voice, resembling one from a grave, suddenly filtered from his vantage point as he emerged from a copse of mildly separated trees. He wore his traditional obsidian cloak, which sashayed behind him with every one of his long and graceful strides. Knee-high boots clicked soundlessly against the earth, descending atop both twig and grass-blade alike without issuing the faintest noise. He wore his raven locks unrestrained, the glimmering mane falling past his slender shoulders and seemingly melting into the depths of similarly-colored mantle. Having remained faithful to traditional Syl’rosyan etiquette, the elf lord did not withhold an elegant bow from the noble lady-turned-acquaintance-turned-partner-in-crimeSorry I could not resist. The two of them went a long way back, from infiltrating a prison to attending the former Combine’s affluent gatherings.

“I received your message.”

He tersely said, one of his horribly scarred hands materializing from his voluminous cloak to reveal the received dispatch. Nimavel’s tone, as usual, betrayed little insight into his mind, but his choice of words, or lack thereof, was oftentimes indicative of his masked feelings to those who knew how to interpret them. Chrysannia would have interacted with the elfin lord long enough to understand that his hesitation was born not from having nothing to say, but rather from his inability to condense all of his opinions into a brief statement that encapsulated it all. Syl’rosya’s transformation had outraged him more than his physical presentation revealed, but as he and Chrysannia were from the same breed, she would likely have little difficultly discerning that his sentiments mirrored her own.

“What do you make of it?”

He asked, immediately cutting to the chase and obviously referring to what had brought both of them back 'home', or rather, to this particular section of the region. Smalltalk was of little value to the stoic elf, whose salary was contingent upon timely performances. It was unlike the assassin to inquire let alone introduce a topic of conversation, but Chrysannia was one of the few people whom he freely conversed with. She was, besides the Archmage, Erenthril Mael’tharias, the only other person whom the ordinarily 'lone wolf' assassin had ever connived with.

[Charybdis]

They were coming.

Their disgusting stench still hung in his nostrils. His fist rose up to the edge of his nose and rubbed, hard, pushing against the flesh to make it fall out somehow, any how. Pain shot up the ribs of skin but he didn’t care. He had to get rid of it. He had to get it out of his nose. So he rubbed harder.

A trickle of red came spurting out, running over the curl of his index finger and falling brilliantly against the pallor of his hand. For the moment he paused to stare at the liquid, almost as if it was foreign. He had seen his own blood before – all too often, in fact. But this seemed new and unrecognizable. Maybe it was the way the sunlight glittered off the crimson. Or maybe it just looked more brilliant against the whiteness of his hand. But it wasn’t his. It couldn’t be his. He couldn’t bleed, not again…

…he had bled too much already.

But if it wasn’t blood, what was it? He couldn’t tell. He could never tell anything, at least not these brightenings. Eras of servitude in the dimly lit underground had robbed him of the ability to distinguish much during the brightening when the suns were high. And yet he knew this place. The tingle on the edges of his skin was ever so familiar; the sounds floating through his elegantly pointed ears were calling him ever forward, ever homeward.

Home. He was coming home. After so long, he would be in the gentle arms of the Elfhame, the last great hold of the Medonian and Silrosian Elfish races on the continent. Soon the ancient magic of his ancestral people would protect him. The soft songs of his forefathers would lift his spirits and return his heart. He would be, once and for all, completely out of those monsters’ reach, forever to dwell in light and never to return to darkness.

But he couldn’t get rid of the stench. It still burned within his nose and crept up throughout his senses, overwhelming each one in its turn. It smelled of fire, sizzling and cracking through flesh. It smelled of smoke, acrid within his skull. It smelled of evil, inexplicable and complete, forever burned deep within the recesses of his mind. The memory would never leave; it was forever a part of his consciousness, forever dancing before his eyes and tainting every thing, every moment for the rest of his meager existence.

If one could, however, call this an existence. It wasn’t much of one. He still had his life but precious else – his mind, heart, and soul were broken beyond all repair. But he was coming home. He had to reach Syl’rosya. He had to return home. He had to come back to the land of his birth to be reborn into that which had given him life. A physical return would be matched by a spiritual. It had to be.

But he couldn’t get rid of the stench. It was foul and it was dank and it wouldn’t leave, no matter how hard he rubbed. Just like the stains of his past existence would never leave his soul but forever taint and forever hold. They would, could, never leave. He had seen and felt and known and experienced too much…much too much.

The trees felt familiar here. Something about their bark warmed the soft ends of his fingers as they ran across the trunks. Yes, he knew this place somewhere deep in his memory past all the haunting ghosts.

Then he saw her. In all honesty, she was impossible to miss – a singular pale figure situated among the growing shadows. Hungrily his eyes set upon the elegant she-Elf as the eras of deprivation began to set in. How long had it been since he had seen his own kind, the true children of the Ke’trala? How many patterns had passed since he had been a part of such easy grace and elegant manners? Such beauty had been tantalizing him in his deepest dreams for much too long, dangling itself just slightly beyond his reach.

And now it was here. The dark orbs watched intently as the male Elf approached and performed his obeisance to the Lady, trying to recall what the gesture meant. At one time in one life he had known these graceful rites and how to perform them. Now he was an outsider, a stranger, no better than some dirty, common beggar pulled off the streets.

He had to approach. He had come too far; he couldn’t turn away now. Fate had led him here. It was inevitable. He had to come forward and into the hands of his homeland…

…but he couldn’t get rid of the stench. It wafted before him as a warning which, when paired with the clumsy sounds of his feet padding against the ground and the thud of his shoulder running into the side of a tree, had rendered his entrance far from discrete.

As he came closer, the drawn features finally cut themselves clearly against the grey of his face. Wear of time and worry had sunk the deep brown orbs further underneath heavy eyebrows. Wrinkles dressed every corner of the face and aged the youthful visage of the Elf far beyond what his ordinances demanded. His form had taken on an extreme of the angular Elfish shape, becoming almost brittle with a covering of nearly-white skin stretched over bones and nary a pinch of flesh between. At first glance his coloring would have easily been mistaken for one of Esh’lahier kind – alabaster and without pigment – but for the singular point of his ears and the brilliant blonde of his hair.

His eyes fell heavily on the figure of Chrysannia as he lurched forward, every step coming at a heavy cost of effort and struggle. He would return home to a grand and glorious entrance. He would be back among his people – revered and beloved and honored as one that had faced and fought death and come back to tell the tale.

He couldn’t get rid of the stench.

OOCOh Lord this post sucked, sorry for the blah.

[Chrysannia Syl'lithar]

The gratting voice caught Chrysannia completely by surprise, she had been lost deep within her our thoughts. Giving a small start at the word her body tensed and her eyes flicked away from the small fire. Within seconds the realization of who it was that had spoken dawned on her, her hand relaxing away from the tiny dagger that rested against her thigh. Not that the weapon would have done any good against a real opponent, it offered the lone Noble some semblance of security.

Chrysannia returned the Elf Lords bow with a single nod of her head, not rising from her seat as she was the higher ranked between the two of them. Not that rank mattered any longer within the New Syl'rosya, but Chrysannia still clung to the past and refused to let it go. Sliding her hand out from underneath the fur blanket she indicated another chair for him to sit. (Yes I know I didn't mention another chair in the first post. )

Taking note of the new scars that he had recieved since they last met, most notably the hand that held the letter she had sent to him. Whatever he had been doing since last they met must have been great to take such a tole on the Lords body. It came with the territory though and Chrysannia knew it, she knew well the business that Nimavel conducted regularly. Having been part of it herself once and having asked him to complete a task or two for her himself. The ties the two shared under the shade of Luviel granted them glimpses into one anothers lives and business.

"What do I make of it?" The question brought a thousand and one answers flowing to her mind and yet she stopped them from exiting through her lips. It of course being everything that had taken place since the Veil had fallen and raised, the newness of an ancient home. It was not that she didn't want to tell Nim what she thought, it was best at the moment to keep her many thoughts to herself while she organized and found out more.

"My thoughts right now are far too muddled to actually tell you what I think. The only answer I can give is of course that it's all a farce. The city, the people, will not be able to survive without us," the us of course being the Noble House. " Eventually they will call for us to lead them when this Heart of the Forest fails them or turns out to be something than what she appears." The mentioned of the Heart caused copious amounts of venom to drip from the tongue of the Lady.

"And your thoughts on what has transpired? Surely they must be clearer than mine own." She asked the Lord as a small shadow crept into her view on the horizon. Knowing Nimavel would know that she saw something coming from behind by the slight flicker of her eyes, Chrys gave a crooked smile of assurance that she thought it was her lone guard returning.

[Nimavel Mynendil]

“They’ve already survived for fifty ordinations without us . . . ”

Nimavel pragmatically answered. While his unarticulated sentiments reflected Chrysannia’s acrimony, the Heru Mynendil accepted Syl’rosya’s irreversible transition. He’d spoken with Glioca U’sionayl firsthand, and that conversation had evidenced the unlikelihood of Elfhame’s reversion to its former self. It was a grim reality, but one that, the assassin begrudgingly knew, would be impossible to overturn.

Whatever had happened during the Veil’s descent, the Combine had been virtually extinguished. There remained remnants of its influence in the city, but these remnants were merely dismal reminders of Syl’rosya’s former glory. Even if the Heart of the Forest relegated itself to passivity and aroused the ire of the city’s occupants, it was contentious whether or not the elves would amalgamate once again to establish another hierarchical order. Regrettably, three other races now comprised a substantial percentage of the city’s population.

The elves had lost their influence.

He considered Chrysannia’s inquiry for a prudent minute. Of course he’d developed a number of opinions since his return to Syl’rosya, but he doubted that they greatly differentiated from the maiden’s own. He and the Lady Syl’lithar were anachronisms. They belonged to a rich history that had seemingly been forgotten. For whatever reason, the elves had abandoned their superlative culture, which had been supplanted by an entity that, instead of promoting vigilance and consolidation, advocated primitiveness and barbarism.

Nimavel’s lavender eyes averted momentarily, a telltale pause that there was something at the forefront of his conscience– and a revelation that few would be able to discern too. Contrary to what would normally have been inferred, the Heru Mynendil had not stormed out of Glioca’s pathetic excuse of an abode – at least, in comparison to her formerly regal dwelling. She had made a proposition that he’d not been able to refuse, not because he lacked the fortitude to deny her offer, but because there were others whom he had to worry about.

“The times have changed, Arwen. There are few of us left. But if what you predict will come to pass, then we must be prepared.”

He shared a pointed exchange with Chrysannia, fully convinced that she would ascertain his meaning. With the Combine’s disintegration, there was nothing that he or Chrysannia could do to remedy that result, but that was not to say that they couldn’t strategically situate themselves in anticipation of the Combine’s imminent return. And of all people, Chrysannia Syl’lithar understood the importance not only of influence and politics, but of manipulation as well.

Before the assassin could expound on his implication, his Shadow Gaze determined the presence of another on the perimeter of the glade. Chrysannia’s calm demeanor suggested that she was expecting a visitor; however, the Heru Mynendil, a proven linguist of physical expression, noted the inelegant gait of the third party – certainly not the graceful stride of a Syl’lithar. And what’s more, the intervener’s laborious advance insinuated either nervousness or fatigue. The latter was often exhibited by novice cutthroats during their first assignments.

A throwing knife appeared in the assassin’s left hand faster than the eye could detect – his arm already poised above his shoulder in a seamless blur of motion. With the flick of his wrist, the elf lord sent the blade spinning tip over hilt a short distance in front of the approaching party and into the grassy floor.

His only warning.

Nimavel casually turned to regard the interrupter.

[Charybdis]

Words…they sounded so familiar, and yet so abstract. The brown orbs glanced quickly from the female Elf to her male companion, searching for some sign, any sign, that might help aid his sense of comprehension. He couldn’t understand the words. What tongue did they speak here? He couldn’t remember. It sounded musical though, like some ancient lullaby whispered along the gentle breezes currently rustling through his hair. It sounded familiar and yet the sounds did not sink in and connect with any images within his mind; they were simply noises, syllables put together in strange patterns and rhythms that did not bring any sense.

Slowly it all began to dawn on him – why he was here, where was here. He knew now. A smile slowly grew on the pale face as the memories came flooding back within his mind. Once upon a time he had learned this tongue; it had been his mother, his protector, and his provider. It had conjoined him forever with his people in this greatest of places, this last haven of the Elfinkind on the Medonian continent, so far away and yet so reminiscent of their ancient home upon Trelore. He knew these people. He had been here before.

Now the words were making sense. Somewhere deep within his mind the long-hidden lexicon of Silrosian tongue began to float up to the front part of his conscious mind as he began to put the words together. Yes, he remembered how to speak this language now; he recalled what the syllables felt like when they rolled off his tongue. He remembered these people now and their ways, customs, and traditions. He remembered that he was one of them. Instinctively his spine straightened, his fingers clenched, and his body elongated itself to its full height. Once he had stood proud, and he would again. He had to again.

A foot moved forward slowly, unsurely, as the shadows fell away from the pallor of his face. Completely unaware of the indiscretion of his approach, the broken Silrosian moved ever closer to Chrysannia and Nimavel, reluctant and yet inexplicably drawn to leave the darkness behind and enter the open and bright clearing before. No longer could the stench hold him back; it was ever present and yet losing its binding power quickly. He would, could, ignore it. He could move forward. Give it enough time and it would fade, it would all just fade away…

The only sign of the approaching blade was a quick glimmer of sunlight against the angled metal, and yet it was enough to send the male Elf shaking and falling uneasily to the side. Quickly, his balance was thrown off-kilter and he flew backwards, hands swinging out to hopefully break the greater majority of his fall. Yet with one loud thud he landed fully on his back and sprawled into the grass. Strands of yellow intermingled with the green leaves below as his eyes, still wide and fully open, stared pointlessly and listlessly into the sky above. The expression on his face held no comprehension of what had just transpired; instead it seemed lost within its own subconscious locked far away from the present.

“Can you smell them?” the words floated up and out of his mind, still foggy under the eras of disuse. The tone itself was reedy and high-pitched, as if unaccustomed to speaking. Yet in the relative silence of the area, the words were clear enough to make out with very little difficulty – and spoken in a perfectly fluent, perfectly musical Silrosian dialect reminiscent of one to whom the Elfhame of Syl’rosya had been home. “It grows too strong. They grow too strong…” The smell still lingered. It always would.

They were coming. It was coming. He knew it. They were; together, they would come.

[Nimavel Mynendil]

Long raven hair floated lazily behind him as he approached the floored elf. His high black boots descended soundlessly atop the yielding grass until he arrived a short distance away, where his lavender eyes bore into the whimsical visage that returned his stare. The unknown elf’s countenance did not evoke any recognition, and thus the Heru Mynendil spared a fleeting glance behind him to Chrysannia, who had yet to confirm whether or not the foreigner was under her employ.

Considering House Syl’lithar’s station, the assassin did not require the maiden’s response to know that the pale-colored elf did not belong to the regal class. It was both possible and plausible that the grimy light-born was one of the many citizens of Silrosia who had returned with the Veil’s dissipation; however, the maniacal glimmer in his distant gape suggested otherwise. It was telltale of something else, something impossible to extract from his demeanor alone.

The assassin adopted a dubious expression as a string of shrill words resounded from the elf’s lungs and interrupted the forest's silence. While Nimavel would ordinarily have deemed the man crazed, there could be no mistaking the anachronistic melody that accompanied the elf’s voice, one that he had not heard in many months: it belonged to the windpipes of a Syl’rosyan of old.

“Who are you?”

He coldly asked, his gaze naturally maneuvering into its customary glare. The elf lord did not respond kindly to the incompetent, though in this case he displayed a higher degree of patience as he was more interested in learning who the man was and where he had come from. He certainly had not returned with the new Silrosians. No one in that Aeternia-ridden domain spoke like those of the pre-Veil any longer – not even Glioca U’sionayl.

Naturally, the Heru Mynendil glanced to the treetops and to the surrounding forest, wondering if the man’s apparent outlandishness stemmed from some genuine threat pursuing him. If that was the case, then Chrysannia and he would not be alone for much longer. But then again, it was entirely possible that the man was suffering from some paranormal delusion. Additionally, judging from the mysterious elf’s initially laborious pronunciation, the assassin suspected that he had not indulged in a regular conversation in some time.

“What are you talking about?”

He inquired afterward, instinctively resorting to the Shadow Gaze to survey the enveloping premises. If there was anyone within the vicinity, the elf lord’s unprecedented ability would have little difficultly discerning them. His nose was not nearly as attuned as his senses, but he unconsciously inhaled the encompassing air as the man complained of some stench allegedly emitted by those who followed him.

Perhaps the air would lend weight to his words, or perhaps not.

OOC: Sorry for the crap post. I'm still a little tipsy

[Chrysannia Syl'lithar]

Chrysannia realized too late that the person coming towards them was not the clansman that had accompanied her. Her eyes widened as Nimavel quickly tossed a blade toward the intruder, imbedding itself in the ground before the mans feet.

Standing quickly from her seat Chrysannia took in a sharp breath, her eyes meeting that of Nimavels for a brief moment. She shook her head at his questioning glance, this man was not one of her own. How could he be? He was filthy and quite clearly insane, muttering about smelling something. There was something slightly familiar about the way he spoke though and it almost comforted Chrysannia.

This wrecked man was Sylrosian by blood and Syl'rosyan by birth. The revelation caused Chrys to take a step forward in reaction to one of her people in distress. How had he come to be in the condition that he was in and more importantly where had he come from?

"Nimavel, help me move him closer to the fire." Chrys brushed past Nim slowly, her feet still slightly unsure of what they were bringing their owner into. Yet they needed answers from the man and maybe warmth and something to drink would help make him readily more available to answer. Bending over the man she grabbed him underneath his armpits, wrinkling her nose against his smell, she glanced in his eyes quickly before looking up at Nim.

Once she, or both, had brought the man closer to the warmth of the small fire Chrys would blanket the man. Pointing to one of the bags that had come along with her she motioned for the Elf Lord to bring her the contents, "There should be water in there, it may help him speak." Pushing the matted hair out of the strangers face Chrys couldn't help but shiver as she looked down at him.

"Tell me, what's your name?" Chrys cooed softly as she waited for the waterskin. "Who has done this to you?" Still in the same soft murmer doing her best to help make the man comfortable with them to speak, hopefully it would clear his mind to be made so.

[Charybdis]

Emptiness surrounded the enforced trio of Elfs – devoid of all other beings, scents, sounds, and sights, the Lady, Lord, and slave were isolated in a world that seemed to be purposely ignoring their doings of the current moment. Nothing stirred. Nothing moved. The suns, the shadows, the sounds – all of it fell still and silent and dull as the fallen Silrosian began to lull from side to side, rolling his weight softly from left to right. His eyes stared idly and blankly at the sky above, not focusing on any one region for any perceptible length of time. The thin lips muttered words underneath the level of the breath, making it impossible to distinguish the syllables from the rhythm of his breath.

He didn’t even flinch as Nimavel and Chrysannia approached, seemingly incoherent of their very presences. The mutterings continued to spew from his lips heedlessly, spouted out into the empty air above as the once-musical tongue of the ancient Silrosian devolved into something even more drastically barbaric than the crudest Orkish language. Strands of pale blonde hair had flung across the broken Elf’s scarred face that, when combined with the unhealthy, almost glowing pallor of his skin, gave it a strange, almost ethereal look of a ghost misplaced in the Material Plane.

There was no scent on the wind; the air smelled as fresh as one would expect from a clear winter brightening. Yet the Elf’s nose remained permanently crinkled in an expression of disgust as the stench continued to burn through the nerves on his flesh, eating into his consciousness and making it impossible for him to focus on anything for any period of time. “They know…” his words floated out of the incomprehensible muttering as the syllables fell back into the lyrical tongue of the Elfish forefathers once more. The dichotomy of the poetry against the stuttering made it nigh onto impossible to follow the train of the Elf’s thought patterns…whether there actually was anything in any consistent manner, anyway.

As the Lady brought the Elf forcibly toward the fire, he began to shake uncontrollably from the crown of the head to the tip of his toes. His eyes darted uncertainly from side to side as his hands curled about his forearms, pulling them close and tucking his torso inward. Unkempt hair fell to either side of his face, framing the sharp angle sand shadowing the wrinkles. Yet he obeyed mutely and without dissent as he allowed himself to be led toward the makeshift seating area, continuing to remain silent as Chrysannia bustled about with her requests, both spoken and done.

Finally his eyes began to focus: on Chrysannia’s fingers. They intently followed every movement the she-Elf’s right hand made, never wavering for the briefest moment. His hands rubbed against the exposed skin of his forearms to force the warmth into the flow of his blood. Yet the male Elf had completely ignored both Nimavel’s and Chrysannia’s questions – but at least his incoherent muttering had stopped. Now it had simply been replaced with an odd attention toward the Lady Syl’lithar’s fingers and a complete ignorance toward the dark-haired Elfish lord ever standing nearby.

“Unspeakable evil in the name of right,” the male Elf spoke again while his eyes continued to sway with every small motion of Chrysannia’s hand, “death brought on the wings of angels.” The words carried the same lyrical ancient pattern as they had before, seemingly native and natural in this land of the great Elfhame. And yet they had been spoken by such a completely twisted and broken countenance that the syllables seemed out of place, as if stolen from some great artist and instead put in this poor, misshapen creature’s mouth. “Would you kill that which is dark in order to save that which is light? Would you descend to Aeternia in order to save yourself for Aetheria? Would you sacrifice your soul in order to save your body?” The words cascaded out past his lips with an almost ferocious tumult, spilling one over another as syllable built on every other syllable. And yet his eyes never wavered, still eternally fascinated on the Lady’s fingertips.

[Nimavel Mynendil]

Snaking a scarred hand underneath the foreigner’s unattended armpit, the elf lord dragged him from the clearing’s perimeter and towards the crackling fire. After retrieving the requested items for Chrysannia, Nimavel assumed an attentive stance over the crazed elf, who continued to generate senseless prose. Throughout the years, the assassin had deciphered many riddles, but there was no perceptible meaning embedded in the fatigued Syl’rosyan’s words – at least, none that the elf lord could readily discern.

While Nimavel initially ascribed the man’s mindlessness to delirium, a syndrome known to induce paranoia, delusions, and hallucinations, he was insightful enough to recognize the complicity of the man’s syntax. And what’s more, his earlier hypothesis was offset by the possibility that the old elf was personally referring to him albeit unintentionally. The Patriarch of the Mynendil Clan, after all, had sacrificed far more than his integrity for the livelihood of Silrosia. He had forgone redemption for the sake of his kindred. The blood of thousands continued to stain his fingertips – and all for the name of Elfhame. It seemed far-fetched and improbable to suspect that the elf was indirectly addressing him, but Nimavel did not discount the possibility.

“He’s insane.”

The assassin laconically muttered to Chrysannia, his pale visage contorting in revulsion as the unknown elf continued to blabber his rhetorical questions. Although the Heru Mynendil was interested in learning where the anachronistic elf had arrived from, he doubted that the man’s mind was functional enough to generate a meaningful answer. Hunger? Thirst? Torture? There were a number of factors that could have resulted in the man’s condition, and unless he somehow managed to restore his sanity, Nimavel was skeptical to believe that he and Chrysannia would learn anything significant.

Perhaps it would be more generous to end the poor elf’s misery.

Nimavel sighed and folded his arms across his chest, burying them underneath the thick folds of his raven mantle. His hands reflexively raked the perfectly balanced hilts of his throwing knives, which were conveniently holstered on both of his sides. With the flick of his wrist, he could send the tormented man to Aetheria, to partake in Phedos’s presence and to join the countless heroes of Silrosia. A quick glance to the nurturing Chrysannia dispelled the thought.

“Do you know what he is talking about?”

The assassin dubiously asked, stealing a stare at Chrysannia’s backside. Her duality continued to astonish him. On one hand, she was the conniving and affluent politician who had infiltrated an Imperial Prison with him to murder two traitors of Silrosia. And yet, there was another side of her, a nurturing side that was willing to extend grace to a hopeless Syl’rosyan merely because he was, in fact, Syl’rosyan. Not surprisingly, he concealed his amusement behind an impenetrable demeanor and returned his attention to the nonsensical elf. In any case, perhaps the maiden possessed another dimension that permitted her to make sense of the senseless.

[Chrysannia Syl'lithar]

Chrysannia only nodded slightly as she listened to the man speak his questions. Questions that were like riddles, riddles she was unable to immediatly solve. What could he mean by all of it? The questions were simple and deserved a simple answer she knew, but the simplicity of the answers eluded her.

"Even the insane have moments of clairvoyence, Nimavel." The she-Elf replied turning her head just enough so she could look at the Lord from the corner of her eye. She shook her head though, slightly defeated, before she turned her attention once more to the distraught elf.

"Please. You have to tell me more, more than just these questions. I want to help you, we, want to help you. You need to give us more. Where have you come from? Who or what has done you such harm?" Trickling a small amount of water from the waterskin into the Elfs mouth she stroked his forhead with the other hand.

"Please." Chrysannia leaned forwards over the man and looked him directly in the eyes. The Ladies golden eyes were soft and covered the mans visage like a warm blanket, trapping him inside. "We only wish to help you." Speaking softly to him, her sweet breath cool against his face, soft hands tracing the lines in his skin.

[Charybdis]

Mahogany circles swum in their sockets as misshapen Elf still mutely resigned himself to the Lady’s care, ever stuck upon their chosen target of Chrysannia’s fingertips. They circled upward as the Elfish Lady continued to stroke his colorless skin, scanning from left to right and then back again as they shadowed her every motion. He didn’t move. He barely swallowed any of the offered water, as the majority of the liquid spilled out of his motionless lips and trickled down off the angle of his chin. His incessant rocking had stopped; not a muscle moved throughout the entire length of his sharp form. The only sign of life now came from the rolling of his eyes and the labored breath leaving his lips.

Finally a shudder – birthed from the very tips of his toes – resounded throughout his lithe form as it unfurled itself through the skeletal legs, up across the protruding ribcage, into the sharp forearms before it came to rest on the pale and cracked lips. They pulled inward first, as if he sucked them toward his tongue, and then pushed outward as yet more rambling Silrosian began to spill out torrential and unbidden, as if his mind had no control over its flow.

“Kill the darkness to save the shadow.” Slowly the male Elf’s eyes left Chrysannia’s fingertips and swam across the edge of the clearing, idly following the ragged line of the trees before they turned fully toward Nimavel and remained momentarily. Nothing registered in the chromatic circles; the expression was purely blank. And yet almost imperceptibly another shiver ran down the side of the right cheek as the broken Elf’s stare remained intense, taking the shape of a flinch of sorts. It was small and brief, taking barely half a moment, before it disappeared and the pallid features fell back into their customary impassive state with not a twist or a tweak to indicate their owner’s thoughts.

With a slight turn of his head, the male Elf allowed his attention to fully fall on Chrysannia, once more opting to ignore the Elfish Lord in favor of the Lady. His syllables continued to spill from his mouth unbroken as he barely seemed to take a breath. “Evil must be destroyed. Evil must be maintained. Only with blood can remittance be given.” The tone was rushed and harsh as they seemed to blend with the cadence of his very breath. One word would be inhaled while the next exhaled, making every tone airy and almost impossible to distinguish from the rumble of his lungs.

Finally, with one particularly loud and long exhalation, the words stopped. The Elf fell quiet, his eyes swimming from Chrysannia’s features to fall once more toward Nimavel and rest there. A quick start led the Elf to sit up straight from his position as dirty blonde tendrils fell about his face with abandon. Yet his eyes remained ever still and ever steady – never once breaking their gaze for a blink or a flicker or a thought.

And in that moment, clarity arose within the brown circles, made evident by the sharpening of their edges and the glimmer shining in their corners. In one instant the male Elf’s customary impassiveness and mixed expressions melted away as his angular features grew significantly harder and sharper, his pallid skin sucked inward and clarifying the shape of his bones beneath. Every muscle in his broken form tensed as his spine straightened without a bend or a leaning. In clear, sharp Silrosian, the Elf said, “You must destroy Ethgan’tor before it destroys all.”

Just as quickly, the moment passed. Every measure of energy left his lithe form as he collapsed back downward like a puppet cut from its strings. His eyes closed as his head fell backwards with the uncoordinated tilt of his neck. The life had been sapped from his very being as he succumbed to the ever-growing weakness of its soul, only remaining in the whispered rhythms of air being sucked and then released past his lips.

[Nimavel Mynendil]

Engaging the raggedy man’s stare without a flinch, the Heru Mynendil stood imposingly as Chrysannia supplied water to his lips. For all of the maiden’s conniving, the altruistic gesture reminded the assassin that she was, first and foremost, a noble woman. Whereas many would have dismissed the foreigner as a lunatic, Chrysannia clearly perceived some value in discerning the hidden meaning dressed in the crazed elf’s prose –if there was any such connotation at all. Nimavel, of course, had long ago deemed the man senseless, but the Arwen Syl’lithar had demonstrated her astuteness time and again. Notwithstanding the elf lord’s proclivity to arrive at hasty conclusions, he had learned to invest a significant amount of faith in the woman’s judgment.

“This one is beyond restoration.”

He tersely replied to his partner. After guiding several strands of raven from his lavender eyes, he observed the periodic shivers that reverberated along the other man’s tattered physique. Naturally, he subscribed to the belief that the elf had somehow been trapped outside the Veil, and without food or family, had lost his mind over the years. It was a porous speculation, but the assassin cared little for the homeless and beggars after all. There was also a plausible possibility that the man had been enslaved outside of Silrosia and had recently escaped – that, or his captors had perished along the way, consequently resulting in the elf’s freedom. In any case, the foreigner’s inability to generate sensible statements buttressed the elf lord’s belief that the man was insane.

That is, until the man whispered of Ethgan’tor.

Nimavel was on a knee beside the dying elf in a matter of heartbeats. Dropping his fingers to the man’s neck, the Heru Mynendil shook his head when he registered no pulse. The battered elf had, with the last fibers of his strength, uttered a single phrase that aroused the elf lord’s concern. He pondered over the warning for a handful of seconds, easily recognizing that the foreigner’s emphasis on evil corresponded with Ethgan’tor. Had the man come all the way from the Esh’lahier Kingdom? A cursory inspection of the man’s weathered condition revealed the obvious nature of his plight; however, whether or not he had been a prisoner of Ethgan’tor was impossible to determine.

“What do you make of it?”

He finally asked, steering his gaze back to Chrysannia. Nimavel was not one to be fazed by potentially hollow warnings, but there was something about the final manner in which the elf had articulated that bothered the Syl’rosyan lord. It was as if, seconds before death, cognition had finally returned to the man’s mahogany eyes. And if that cognition had been reinforced by accurate knowledge, then the Lord Mynendil wondered what threat the Esh’lahier posed to the elves.

It was true that Syl’rosya was weak and that its socialist makeup paled in comparison to the formerly mighty Combine, but Nimavel doubted that even the Esh’lahier, who had hid in their forest for centuries, would risk retaliation and consequently their homeland’s annihilation, unless they had the means of destroying Silrosia before there was even a chance to organize a counterattack. As he weighed the possibilities in his mind, the elf lord’s hands instinctively moved of their own accord, running along the dead man’s attire and belongings for any clues.

[Chrysannia Syl'lithar]

Chrysannia had about resigned herself to the fact that the shattered Elf would be of no use to them. He continued to speak without truly saying anything helpful despite her best efforts to help clear his mind. There was only so much she was able to do as she had never dealt with those who had minds that were broken. She may be able to coax words and thoughts out of those she dealt with, but those had minds that were whole, that could be probed and felt for answers. This was a much different scenario indeed from what she was used to working with.

The Lady knew that they would need to do something with the broken man and that was where her thoughts drew now. The simplest task would be of course to dispose of him, which between Herself and Nimavel would hold no issue. The easiest path was not always the best to walk and Chrys knew it, thinking further ahead might bring answers at some point.

"There may be others that can find answers further below the surface than I am able to."

Looking to her partner and frowning at the tone of his voice. She wondered slightly if it was the time he spent away from home that had changed him slightly. Time spent with the lesser races grating on the eternal patience that the Elves possessed. It must surely be that as he did engage quite often on tasks outside of the Elfhame and dealt with who knew what. Though he could not be blamed, for she herself knew that what he did away from home was for the good of their beloved forested homeland.

"We'll bring him to-"

Stopping as the shudder of the mans body registered in her fingertips and her eyes immediately fell to him once more. As she watched him in those moments and listened to the torrent of nonsensical words he spoke she came to a conclusion. She'd seen it only a few times before, but she was sure that the man was having some sort of seizure. Not being a healer she had no way to tell for sure and all she could do was hold him until whatever inflicted him ceased.

Then his final words came through as bright and clear as a summer day. Ethgan'tor, the holy city of the Shadow Elves that lay within the Forest of Light. It was then that his previous words clicked and Chrys had some semblance of what he meant. Nodding slightly as Nimavel bent to check the mans life signs she was wandering far and away to times past. Thinking about everything she had ever known about the city of her darker cousins and what any of it had in connection with this man.

"Kill the darkness to save the shadow."

Repeating his words as her mind came back to the present situation. Removing the mans head from her lap she stood and stretched out her legs. It still didn't make all too much sense to her but it was the only answer that came to mind.

"The Shadow, our Esh'lahier cousins are also known by that name, are who I think this man was referring to. As to the Darkness the first thing that springs to mind are the Vysstichi. Though I do not think it would be them as I doubt they would have much to gain from fighting with the Esh'lahier." Pausing for a second to compose her thoughts once more. "My second thought is that there is something far darker hiding within the ranks of our pale cousins city. Perhaps some form of Aeternian influence has been dredged up purposefully or without them knowing and has begun something they cannot control. Then again, they are mainly worshippers of the Three-Faced God so it's most likely not on purpose if that is the case." Spinning quickly to face Nimavel as a fist came down onto the upraised open palm of her other hand.

"There is too much this man has not told us and I need to know more. If not through his own volition than through some other means. This is far too delicate and serious a warning for us to simply ignore." Eyes lowering to the still form of the Elf she frowned in thought as to what could be done.

"And yourself, Nimavel, what do you think?"

[Charybdis]

Release came sweetly as death washed over the broken Elf’s body. It crept up through the toes, then legs, then torso, as it relaxed ever muscle it touched and stilled every pulsation of the lifeblood through the former Silrosian’s veins. With one last, labored breath, the very final tendrils of air were expelled from the male Elf’s lithe form – his last act. Peace, it seemed, had come at last to his mind in the revelation of the riddles born of the darkness in Ethgan’tor’s hold. The last smell of Syl’rosya’s fragrance seeped through his senses as he finally let his consciousness drift to darkness and his hold fall.

His duty was done. His soul drifted to the stars with his ancient kindred – the fate granted to the mortal sons of the Ke’trala. Now the business of the Material Plane and the twisted lines of the species of Elfinkind remained in the hands of the Silrosian assassin and former queen. Duty and obligation were far from foreign words to both – but now the past had come again to haunt its children as the scars of the Great Divide were brought to light once more between former brothers and once-compatriots.

As was its style, history was on the verge of repeating itself once more.

OOCSorry; had no idea what to post! So um…there you go! I’m waiting for a response on something before my next post, so feel free to discuss as you will. Poke me when you want me to go next.