Let Andruil's bow crack

[arcaneadvisor]

WHO: Morrigan, Thranduil, Myrobalan Shivana, Herian Amsel, The Medicine Seller
WHAT: The hunt for Flemeth continues in the depths of the Tirashan where the elves are wilder, the rumours bloodier. The shaman in the Wilds said she must look to the past and here they worship not the Creators but something other...
WHEN: Early Drakonis
WHERE: Tirashan Forest
NOTES: Some discussion/mentions of human sacrifice, violence and gore.
ooc post
previous catch-up to part one with all relevant links

Once Morrigan had heard the tales when staying in Serault. Soldiers clashing with Dalish elves unlike others. Elves in Vallaslin the colour of blood, who do not invoke the names of any Creator when they come to fight. And on the way the evidence of attacks still linger; skirmishes, true, but elfshot if the eyes know what to look for in the arrows, some small farmhouses burnt, people who look to those of the party with pointed ears with cold suspicion.

But the Tirashan beckons, dark and forbidding as it has ever been. Home to legends as dark as the swamps some of the party had been witness to before but no welcome awaits them. This time there is danger, and Morrigan can feel her heart in her throat as she clutches her staff tighter in her hand, swallows hard as she leads them in. The symbols are-- strange. Forbidding.

There is blood deeper in. The terrain difficult. You are not wanted, it seems to say firmly, roots to trip, stones slick with moss, hidden pits to stumble and twist the ankle in. An unnatural silence falling the deeper the party ventures in, and from the side of her mouth with her head turned as much as she dares, Morrigan whispers a gentle reminder. "They will be friends to none of us. Be wary. We cannot afford to fight them. I have come here to slip in and out, silent as a Crow's knife."

Comments

[rowancrowned]

Clever, Thranduil thinks approvingly, as he witnesses the firefly of light wink out. Well, if they are to scavenge, let them scavenge, and he considers the statue of Fen'Harel with brief, uncharacteristic longing. They are robbing these not-Dalish of their culture as readily as the Men do, for whatever they have recovered, bloody as it is.

That stays his hand. He does not pilfer, he reads, scanning for names as instructed and memorizing names and phrases with a mind well-suited to memorization as he steps with light feet through one wagon after the other, careful not to disturb stacks of possessions. A child's toy here, a bedroll there, a jar, a bottle.

So many of the Dalish illiterate, and these ones have books.

[arcaneadvisor]

There is something in her hand and Morrigan finds that somehow she can't quite breathe.

"A price is to be paid for all things. Guide, truth, hope, justice; how heavy a price?" The shaman had said that beneath the skull she wore, and Morrigan's hand shakes as she takes it, walks away on unsteady legs then looks to Myrobalan and his magic to keep them safe because they have to hear this.

There's no other way as she tries to keep her voice level enough to speak.

"There are no gods. There is only the subject and the object, the actor and the acted upon. Those with will to earn dominance over others gain title not by nature but by deed." It's nothing she's ever heard before from anything like the Dalish, not even those who've left have voiced anything that could sound so virulent; the words hardly sound as if they come from those living now. They twist as she tries to read them, she has to stumble over the words. (Ancient Elven is complicated, she may need to sit with this again, with Thranduil before any others, she can't trust this to the project.) "I am Geldauran, and I refuse those who would exert will upon me. Let Andruil's bow crack, let June's fire grow cold. Let them build temples and lure the faithful with promises. Their pride will consume them, and I, forgotten, will claim power of my own, apart from them until I strike in mastery."

The blood has run from her face, cold sweat down her spine even in the close air of the forest. Not one word of this does she like, and her staff is clutched tighter despite the weight of memory it carries too.