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The Wealdath breathes a language older than any tongue.
and I, Fíriel, have long since tried to listen.
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The Wealdath breathes a language older than any tongue.
and I, Fíriel, have long since tried to listen.
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That eve, as dusk settled its violet cloak across the canopy, shadows stretched long between root and stone. In the hush of twilight, where shadows grew long and the forest drew its cloak about its shoulders, Fíriel walked unseen among the roots of the Wealdath toward the Circle of Elements. She did not announce herself. Instead, she settled near the great oak whose gnarled branches bore the weight of centuries, folding herself into the twilight as only an elf could do. Her bow lay across her lap, and her keen eyes traced every movement and every word exchanged among those gathered. They were a mismatched band that evening: Two dwarves, broad of shoulder and rough of voice. One Kragor, quick to jest, and Dugal, whose beard spoke of stubborn years. Elves whose speech flowed softer than brookwater, among them Silvaine, calm as moonlight, Keila, her bowsister, also calmer nowadays than she used to be. Zaeryl, quite shy, still, yet bold enough to sing. And the Painted Druid, Díolliun, bearing the scent of deep woods and hidden glades. Firiel watched them all, an unseen guardian, her gaze both wary and yet wondering. They spoke first of simple things: spoils from a recent venture, silver plates, tarnished sickles, and an oak club of curious worth. Their debate rose and fell like the breeze through the high branches, and Fíriel listened, as the forest's own whispers filled the quiet spaces between words. The scrabble of a mouse in fallen leaves, the low creak of a branch bending under its own age. It was then, through the shifting firelight, that the Aged Druid Bramble appeared. Her steps were slow but deliberate, each movement telling of years spent among root and stone rather than away from them. A gnarled hand reached out, resting against a massive root of an Oak, as if drawing quiet strength. A grunt, accompanied by the pop of tired joints, marked her settling onto a worn stone, the druid's presence as natural as bark grown thick with age. Then the mood changed.
Kragor, with a grin as broad as the river fork, raised his voice in song. The words were rough-hewn, broad in accent and humor, yet they carried the heart of something older than jest. A dwarven ballad of bravery, of hunts through bracken and heather, and of a warrior's promise to guard the weak. Maybe it was something that she did not want to acknowledge, the similarity, the familiarity of his song, though alien in rhythm to elven ears, but still, it rang with honesty. There it was. The inner conflict that stood in her way. Again and again. Though she did not move, felt the pulse of it echo, until it died down inside her. When Kragor's voice faded, Zaeryl rose. Fíriel's eyes, keen as emeralds washed by rain, fixed upon her. The young elf lifted her arms toward the branches overhead, closed her eyes against the weight of so many gazes, and began a low, trembling hum. Then words, in the tongue of the forest, flowed like water from a hidden spring. Her song spoke of moonlit glades, of silver leaves trembling on ancient boughs, of unseen presences that guarded rather than hunted. As Zaeryl’s last delicate note faded into the hush beneath the ancient boughs, the Aged Druid Bramble turned toward the Circle. Her voice, gravelly yet calm, rolled through the circle like distant thunder softened by years. And her voice alone made it happen, that the Circle seemed to settle. Voices lowered, postures softened, as if the gathering itself drew breath and stilled. "If I might borrow your ears and hearts a moment, i've something to share as well." A wry chuckle lingered in her chest like gravel beneath old and worn boots. "Though I hope you won't begrudge me staying seated and still, i'm afraid my branches may only have one song and dance left in them. The forests melody is one that has been withering over time. Not quite faded, but not thriving either.. and... there is much that contributes to that." A moments pause is taken for the elder to catch her breath, despite the energy inspired it would seem her own is still quite limited. "The forest, as is easily observed, is in a state of flux. The breeze moves in rapid and unweildy direction." Bramble spoke again, softly, as if afraid to startle what she sensed. Her words were not instruction, but invitation, and around the circle, everyone attuned in their own ways. It was Silvaine, who stirred, and a frown creeped upon her features as her eyes remain closed before she broke her silence to speak, softly though. "Something... On the river... Something is struggling there, something without ill intent is struggling against... something else." One by one they rose, elves graceful as water, dwarves more ponderous yet resolute. Fíriel unfolded from her kneel like a branch uncoiling toward light, bow already resting in hand, eyes settled upon Keila. No words were needed, and she stepped beside her bowsister. Her gaze passed the others: Kragor, still humming under his breath; Dugal, eyes narrowed with the focus of a warrior; Zaeryl, bright with a mix of fear and resolve; Silvaine, her posture alert; Finally The Painted Druid, who remained still but present, yet in a conflict, one not unlike that which demanded their focus. Though it was clear - they were to step beyond the Circle's walls, into the Weald.
The hush grew deeper there, oppressive with an old, waiting hunger. Thoughts flickered in Fíriel’s mind as they crossed the boundaries of safey. Sanctuary left behind, wildness embraced. Leaves brushed their faces, wet with dew. Somewhere a crow startled upward. The Wild elf's senses spread wide and she felt the earth's pulse, smelled the faint iron tang of disturbed soil, and caught the bare echo of something that had moved not by foot or claw, but with a glide of will older than tooth and fang. Bramble paused near a rivulet that carved through mossy stone, her hand hovering over water made silver by moonlight. “The land is troubled here,” crossed her thought. But she kept quiet as she stepped close. The scent of crushed fern sharp in her breath. Beneath the surface, the water's flow twisted oddly, like... tiny vortices forming and dying, as if some presence teased at the stream's memory. Her fingers brushed the bark of a leaning oak, its ridges rough beneath her palm. The tree's life whispered to her in unease; A bruise upon root, only recent. "Yes," she answered the feeling. Just for herself, softly, her voice threaded with the hush of nightfall. The others felt it too, in different ways. Díolliun's brows were drawn together. Zaeryl's breath trembled. And the dwarves, often so quick to jest, spoke no word. Silvaine, thoughtful, led the way with Keila.
The deeper they went, the more the forest seemed to draw breath around them. Shadows layered themselves thicker than bark. Moonlight filtered only in splinters, silvering moss and wet leaves. Yet to the huntress, the dark was not emptiness but a cloak, and she knew how to wear it. Her gaze fell to the marks on roots on their way. Not the clean diggings of boar or badger, but gouges cut deep with force by claw, monstrous, large. The smell rising from the wounded tree was fresh. Without signal, they moved, the dwarves in front, a shieldwall, slow and steady. Along the Sangrue River, where it bendth south, an ambush! Grizzlehides, alarmed, wild and ready to fight. A clash of warriors, who joined an ancient feud that would only cease when one side was no more. It was a gruesome battle, and for a moment the forest fell silent to hold its breath... until the last arrow and the last sword blow ended the encounter. And an oppressive silence returned to the forest. Only the iron taste of curdling blood reminded those standing, of the lost souls who had just taken their last breath. Gazes exchanged, and they pressed onward. Beyond twisted brambles, a clearing opened, moonlit, yet wrong. The hush that had weighed upon them before felt heavier now, a brooding presence beneath the ancient boughs. "Hold" A dwarven voice rasped, and Fíriel obeyed, though every instinct screamed to loose an arrow at a movement in the shadows and she did. A howl emerged, and the worgs lunged first! Shadows crashing through fern and root, fangs gaping. Fíriel raised her bow again, a second arrow, the oak smooth and warm against her palm, silver veins pulsing through the wood, breath, focus, loose! An arrow flew, struck deep into the worg's shoulder. It yelped, twisting aside, but another took its place, jaws snapping for her throat. Kragor crashed into it with a roar, smiting its side with his shield, Dugal was beside him, back to back, blades flashing, and their breath harsh through clenched teeth. Beyond them, the Grizzlehides came on with crude spears and rusted swords, yet strength and fury made them terrible. Silvaine's voice rose, and in between, Díolliun's shape twisting, into an ancient bear, ready to maul through the first line with sharp claws. Vines uncoiled from earth, snagging limbs, slowing the charge... skin glistening under sweat, voices chanting low, steel grinding steel. This battle was brutal and grueling, and if it weren't for Vaelia's prowess, the attackers might have gained the upper hand. As it was, the balance slowly but surely tipped in favor of the defenders. And with the last gurgling breath, of the ambusher's leader, one Worg turned, hackles high, and it loped back into shadows. One or two of the Grizzlehides, heavily injured, followed, snarling, glancing back but not daring to stay. It became quiet again in the Wealdath. For a moment, no one moved. Breaths thundered in everyone's ears. Only blood, broken roots, and armors, crushed bones and the smell of fresh cadavres remained. Fíriel lowered her bow, breath shuddering out of her chest. Pain burned in her ribs, sharper now that the fight was past. Around her, others sagged too. But something urges her again, instinct. Her senses stretched outwards... her thoughts flowing:
The bristle could easily be confused by the putrid wind carried through the tree...
Nature seems to have thrived, but that blood is drawing other predators...
What looks like a trees branches moving in the distance is anything but...
A predators eyes watch...
It draws closer...
It's large...
Looming..
A screaming instinct flares: Flight!
"Predator is near. It comes. Take but one breath, then go. Go now... Back." It was rare for her to raise her voice above another's. And without further explanation, she retreated. They left as swiftly as they’d come, though they were bruised, bleeding, breathless, although alive. In that silent walk toward the Circle, the huntress bowed her head. Not in triumph, but in gratitude, to bow, steel and spell, to arrow and root, and most of all, to the living will of the Wealdath. On the way back, her tracks were lost among the group. The Wild elf had but one thought: A predator.