[ closed ]

[rowancrowned]

WHO: Thranduil, Morrigan, Ellana, Anders, Alan, Melys, Petrana, the Medicine Seller, and Beleth.
WHAT: Finally, the crew arrives at Solasan 
WHEN: Early Justinian
WHERE: The ~Forbidden Oasis~, Solasan.
NOTES: Rookery Post, Original Log.

The door shudders open once the shard pieces are slotted into place, and Thranduil strides inside, a mouthful of stale air and shelter from the heat and bright sun of the oasis the first things he's greeted with. No rattling bones or the arcane shrieks of demons follow, and as his eyes adjust to the light, he turns back to look at the group gathered behind him, ignoring for the moment the sarcophagi at either side of the hall, and the piles of what are surely elven bones.

"Morrigan, you will take Anders and Alan. Ellana, Melys and Petrana will go with you. Healer," he says, gesturing to the Medicine Seller, having no better name,"-you will come with me, Beleth will be our translator should we encounter any more Elvhen writing, like that at the door. Go slowly. Turn back if you find yourself in need of aid, and use the crystals. I assume you all have food and water."

As he speaks, he passes two small pouches to both Morrigan and Ellana-- a third of the morbid stash of shards each-- and waits for the groups to sort themselves.
 

Comments

[ipseite]

Ellana's spell layers over her own, and Petrana has the brief thought that that answers one question - that her own witchcraft does not consider theirs so alien as to need to protect her from it. It will merit more study.

She should have thought to warn; she should have, she realises, thought to share, but the only one not herself she's ever had to worry about is beyond worry, the instinct in the moment to reach out to someone is different from the muscle memory of preparation that's never involved anyone taller than three feet high. Nevermind it, done is now done, and she can't berate herself for not sharing the instincts of warriors and their kind, can only remind herself to learn from the experience.

Presuming, which she still does not entirely, that she will live through it.

[aforethought]

Real polite of ancient mages, ain't it, to make sure their horrible traps glow for easy recognition. Or maybe it's like that Orlesian thing, aesthetics —

(Who's in charge of arranging the bodies for all this? Elf number one, you pulled short straw, so it's your turn to drag in the corpses,)

— Swords aren't great news. Dead things, they're mostly dumb, most don't have much beyond intent to keep them moving. She still doesn't like the odds on closing that distance without making a few close calls. She hasn't fought along enough mages to guess how long the shield might last.

"There's gonna be some awful shit in that box," A prediction she really wouldn't mind being wrong about. "You take left, I'll take right."

Better someone who can put fires out handle that nonsense.

"If nothing comes up from behind, yell,"

Casually, to Petra. Without further ado, she swings her blade and moves in.

[serannas]

Awful shit is sort of what the ancient elves excelled at. Eighty booby traps and a battalion of corpses and everything else they could have thrown at the hapless treasure seeker as a deterrent. If there's a clearer way to say "Don't touch our shit," she doesn't know it. And yet Ellana keeps poking because there are answers to be had. She just likes it when those who are with her have signed up for this instead of being drafted.

"Got it." Though Ellana has a better idea than just avoiding the fire mine. She waits until the corpses linger a little too near it before setting a static cage above it. They keep lumbering forward, swords lifting for the attack, when they reach the outer corner of the cage and are immediately dragged back to the center, over the mine. That sets it off and a burst of fire kicks up, engulfing three of them.

[ipseite]

Petrana -

she would like to be able to say that she does something brave. That she contributes in some useful way. That, at least, she keeps her wits and her dignity about her.

What actually happens is that she flattens to the wall behind her like a frightened animal, reaching blindly for a hand that isn't there and curling her own into a fist when she realises her (stupid, stupid--) mistake. (He is not here, he has not been here, he will not be here. No one is coming to protect her.)

The flames rise and the roar of them covers, for the most part, the sound she makes in her shock; in the quiet immediately afterwards, she realises with a start the lowering reality that she is crying.