Dancer Between

[Misty]

We watch the wood, Ilemar and I. Sometimes speaking, more often not. Comfortable in the shared silence, our eyes surveying the forest floor. Neither feeling the need to fill the air with unnecessary noise.

Some call this focus, this drive to restore Myth Drannor a Crusade. Others name it the Return. He calls it Duty, as do I. It is our duty to mend the mistakes of our past, close the forgotten secrets now laid bare. Our duty to Faerun. To The People. Mine to my brother. The Seldarine forbid, should he fall, I shall continue to fight for his dream. The dream of a force six thousand strong.

Like Captain E'less, I know not what future I may have once the city is restored, but I will peer down that path another day. For now, we fight. We watch the wood. Together.

[Misty]

They laugh at you, child.

Why?

You are nothing.

I am NOT nothing!

You could have been anything.

I am a dancer.

Nothing.

I am NOT nothing!

You have no one.

I have my brother.

He needs a laugh, too.

No!

He tolerates you.

It is not like that!

Even your shadow left you.

She was stolen!

What do you do to get her back?

What can I do?

Nothing.

Just like me.

What good are you?

No good.

Now you understand.

[Misty]

Deep dark thrum, near inaudible drum,
Of the hundred boots that come
To destroy our home.

Foul tenor cry from hell on high,
Directing the bass to march or die,
To destroy our home.

Seldom heard the contralto word
Flying high as a terrible bird,
To destroy our home.

The ancient lore of this Song of War,
Echoes aloud, descending once more
To destroy our home.

Defiantly we sing, courage we bring,
Resounding do our voices ring
To destroy their horde!

[Misty]

The river runs red
With blood of our dead,
Everyone left hangs their head.
Sorrow great replaces dread.

Gleaming armors broken and shred,
Gold finery now covered in red,
No song of victory but grief instead,
Great and many tears we shed.


He says, ‘Such is war.’
But it never hurt like this before.


Dreams fade with the sunrise,
No more life in these dulled eyes,
Time we now have for goodbyes
Midst the laments of surviving cries.

Friendships new now torn apart,
Spirits tested when one love departs.
How does one heal the heart
From the impact of this horrible art?


He says, ‘Such is war.’
But it never hurt like this before.


‘Dwell not on the loss and pain,’
He says in voice tight with strain,
So many dead and few remain,
How can one from madness refrain?


He says, ‘Such is war.’
But it never hurt like this before.

[wvincenti]

*hugs*



-Bill

[Misty]

“I wish you would stop provoking her, Laurelin,” Daddy sighs from his trap table, speaking before I even open my mouth. “Your mother loves you very much.”

“No she doesn’t!” I snap, tying my long hair into a knot. My head still aches and ears still ring, but I have to pull it back to work at his table. Daddy’s Rules.

“She does,” he sighs again, setting his trap down to look at me. I pick up some cord studded with sharp thorns, and some wire. Might as well be useful while we have the same old conversation. “You know she does,” he says, right on cue.

“Then why does she yell at me all the time?”

Again the long-suffering sigh. “You know why. She wants you to be more, to apply yourself. You are smart enough.”

My turn to sigh. Magic was fun, but why bother learning to make a light? I disliked the low-end spells. “I get bored, Daddy.”

“You have faith enough, why not a priestess?”

“Daaadddeeeeeee! I don’t want to talk about it. What is the rush anyway?”

He holds his hands up in surrender. “The arts, then. Not Art!” he amends at my scowl. “But singing, dancing and the like. You like dancing.”

I set the simple snare down, and pick up a few spikes for the next one. “I don’t get to go anywhere, what use is that? It’s not like anyone here needs inspiration. Besides, Mother would hate that more than anything. I’m not trying to make her mad, remember?”

“You could do what I do,” he smiles.

“I do do what you do!” I lift the second trap to show him.

“Some of it, but not all of it, you silly girl!” He begins working on a really strong snare to prove his point.

“Why do I need two blades? So I can miss twice as much?” I pick up the wires for a spiky trap, but no spikes.

“I could teach you how to not miss!” he laughs.

I place a few small, soft pouches full of liquid where the spikes usually sit. “Why do I have to choose now, Daddy? I’m only ninety-six!”

He sighs again, “Some hint, Laurelin, of where you want to go and maybe your mother will stop biting at your heels.” He is not being poetic. Last moonround I called her a rude name, so she shifted into a wolf and chased me all over, snapping her bitch teeth until she bit my heel and I fell.

“She is so mean to me, Daddy. How can I be her daughter?”

Stars burst in my vision and a slap echoes before I feel the sting on my cheek. “Never!” he growls. “Never, ever say such foulness! How could you not be?! You look just like her! I watched your birth! Never doubt that she is your mother. EVER AGAIN!"

My bottom hits the floor. He never hit me before. I hold my cheek, my stupid voice shaking, “Daddy?” The color drains from his face, he walks over to hug me, but I do not feel him. I feel nothing but the sting. His voice a distant hum in my ear, I think he leaves to get food. It does not matter. He leaves. I run away.

I run to the lake, long hair streaming behind, catching the tears.

[Misty]

A shiny little offering I leave to the fey,
for the Trickster’s Dance of yesterday.


I felt so truly alive, and so soon cut down. But I will not speak of the latter. Not yet. Let us savor the joy first.







After meeting with Councilor Malorn, he asks us to find Chancellor Ilmeth, who lives in Essembra, and had not corresponded in several days. With enemies descending all around, a few days’ silence was worrisome. So we - Delawyn, Roderick, Noilir, some guards and myself - board a wagon and travel to Essembra.

Demons attack on the way, of course. But that is not part of the dance I want to tell you about. We arrive to Essembra, and it is empty! Some cows wander about, a few chickens, wild cat or two prowling, but no people. No bustle. The windows shuttered closed. We do not know where to begin searching, so we wander like the animals.

A few silent taverns, silent houses. Some snoring caught my ear, so I look. The malodorous cloud of vomit, waste, and bad ale defines the man before we see him. I kick his shoulder, but he does not wake enough to tell us where to find the Chancellor’s home. I resume looking for overlarge houses while Roderick talks to the old man. A note on a random door read Gone to 7th layer of hell. Come find me! Hillsfar pigs! That house has a few stinkbags in it, so I take them. Might be useful.

The temple to Gond holds no clues, nor the market of rotten fruit. We find another place, called Swordpoint Shrine. Roderick says, “Tempus.” So we go in. No, it is not open, I must unlock it first. Roderick and Delawyn find something interesting, but no people. I wait outside. I will not steal from a temple with them so near. Not that there was anything to take, but neither did I look too hard. Anyway, there is probably a map, because when they come out, Roderick and Delawyn head north right away. We walk to a large building, and this is where the Trickster’s Dance begins.

We walk inside, the desk of whoever is supposed to greet new people and keep them from wandering about the house was empty. Another table near is covered in maps. Delawyn rolls them up and puts them in his bag. I start to walk into a large room, but of a sudden Roderick’s arm bars my way. He nods inside, where several humans stand together, talking in low tones. “Aren’t we supposed to talk to them?” I whisper, presuming one of those humans was the Chancellor.

He nods, “Just wanted to see what was going on.” I bury the irritation. If they want an unseen spy, then they need to stay out of sight and hearing while I go in. Have I lost my role in this war?

One of them breaks from the huddle to address us, “May we help you?” What sort of greeting was that? Did these people not know war is outside?

Roderick raises a hand, answering in that oddly formal way nobles do, “High Councilor Malorn sent us.”

The tall human that seems to be in the center of the gaggle lifts his head, then answers, “Ah, Councilor Malorn. What does he want?” What does he want? What does he WANT?!? You should know! I want to answer, but do not. Let the males do the talking, no need for three voices in this strange song. I hide against the wall, probably not hiding my confusion.

“He wonders why you have not been in contact, and why the refugees from Essembra claim they have heard nothing from you for the last five days,” Delawyn is polite but direct. Surely he suspects something odd, too?

An exasperated Ilmeth answers, “I've been trying to keep the damned Red Plumes off my back! That's why! There are villagers to move out and such!” Roderick whispers to Delawyn. I sneak closer in their shadows, I want to hear. “Look,” Ilmeth tries to be patient, “We will go as soon as we can.”

Delawyn turns to Roderick, “I'll be right back. See if we can be of any help.”

“Now,” Ilmeth gets imperial with us, “How close are the Plumes?”

“Day and a half by now,” Roderick stands straighter while Delawyn walks away. I know what he is up to. “Is there anything we can do to be of assistance?”

“We'll be with you shortly then,” Ilmeth crossly answers. He then tilts his head, as if considering something and asks, “Do you have a way out?”

“We do.”

“Where?”

“We have a way out. You'll forgive my being short, I hope,” Roderick returns the courtesy. Only, that will not help. Delawyn needs time to concentrate, and for these people to not distract him. He returns after a moment, standing behind Roderick. We need to stall these people.

“Outside?” Ilmeth mutters. I wait for an opening to the dance.

“I’m not sure I understand?” Roderick mimics Ilmeth’s tilt of the head.

“Oh, I mean is it outside? Surely it must be,” Ilmeth shrugs. “No matter. We should not be long.” Thank you, Fey Jester.

“Isn’t it?” I push away from the wall, moving between the gaggle of humans and my companions. I lean forward, studying Ilmeth.

“Huh?” he stupidly answers. Nobles do not say that. Roderick whispers to Delawyn about someone missing from the room. “Isn’t what?” Ilmeth asks me.

I do not hear Delawyn, so he must still be concentrating. “Does it not matter? How we might escape? How will YOU escape? Surely you do not wish to lay down and die here.”

His bushy brows knit together, “I'm not sure I understand.” Good, very good. You aren’t supposed to!

“Why so silent?” I challenge him. Then I hear Delawyn whisper.

“I'm afraid I don't understand. We'll go with you as soon as we're done.” This I did not doubt. But Delawyn’s whisper was important. He and Roderick discuss human names, while Ilmeth nods, trying to make me go away. “If you’ll give us one hour.”

“No,” I will not give him anything. Something is very wrong here.

“Or what?”

“You didn't really answer the first question. Why are you ignoring your allies?”

Delawyn and Roderick ask Ilmeth about his man Frederick, but even I hear the falseness in their act. How insulting. If they wanted a specific performance, why not ask me? Anyway, Ilmeth knows they are lying and tells them so. We are losing control, and something is wrong with the gaggle of humans, besides what Delawyn saw with his spell.

Time for a larger distraction, to gain enough time for Delawyn to cast without interruption. I throw a stinkbag in front of Ilmeth, turning to hide behind my brother. Ilmeth bellows something indignant while Delawyn casts. The humans stop looking like humans, they were instead daemonfey.

Now, I could go into details about the fight, but what is the point? We fight a gaggle of Daemonfey, though one escapes out an upper window. I sneak off to search the manor alone, Ilmeth might be around somewhere. What luck! In the basement, naked, tied and gagged, but a man looking like the one we addressed as Ilmeth. Of course, it could be another illusion.

“Hello there,” I greet him, putting bow on my shoulder. I pull the gag out, cut his bonds. Then I put the knife to his throat. We have to be careful. Roderick finds us and throws clothes at the man. I ask nicely, “Who are you?” while Roderick asks Delawyn to check for illusions.

The man holds still, speaking firmly, “War Chancellor Ilmeth of Battledale.” I let up on the knife a little bit.

“You look like the fake chancellor,” I begin to rise.

This is not intended to sound dumb, but I suppose it is taken that way, for Roderick answers, “I think the fake was supposed to look like him.”

Any the case, I believe the naked man is the Ilmeth we want. “Apologies, sir. We have been dealing with glamours.”

He curses while dressing, Delawyn checks for illusions, all is good. Such a beautiful dance, I could not help but feel proud. But this is where the joy ends, and so my tale. Oh, and Chancellor Ilmeth is safe.

[Misty]

A laughing brownie pops into the modest treehollow I borrow for shelter. We play a game, then I ask permission to stay in Alendir’s tree. He grants it before scampering off. A few hours before dawn, I step out of the shelter. I know I hear nothing and no one approach. The crickets do not notice either, for they never went silent.

“I like this hour well. It's a border, dawn is,” His lilting sylvan whisper floats over my shoulder. He sings more than speaks. It takes effort to hear his words, for they sound as soft and unassuming as the rustling of trees, spoke oft with a secret smile that suggests amusement with all before him. Including, or perhaps especially, me. I fail to hide my surprise while he continues, “Some belong on one side of any given border, others to t'other, as I've been chastised recently.”

“Chastised?” I look over my shoulder and up, my hood falling back. Shaggy goat legs lead up to the finest torso I ever had the pleasure to see. His simple baldric seems to emphasize his strange beauty, holding in place a pair of twin thornblades, pipes, and skin full of feywine. The leaves tangled in his hair do not hide the finely shaped horns twisting from his temple.

He smirks, eyes to the barely lit horizon as he toys with the leather cord binding his russet hair, “It is of no matter. It is hard to walk the greenswards when each blade has its caretaker. I have propitiated those who took offense, though, I believe.” The familiar twinkle shines in his eye, the corners of his lips twitching into a lop-sided smile, “Much favours-trading goes on amongst my folk. The benefit of not giving a care to coins, each obligation's personal.”

“As it ought to be,” I nod, following his eyes to watch the dawn.

“Oh?” he sniffs the air, as if for something unpleasant. “And how many circles of gold and silver, or other articles do you rely upon, despite coming from a stranger's hand? That which one ought do in your world is,” he scratches at the base of one horn, “a little alien to me, I shall admit.”

But, it’s not like that! I want to protest, realising he smelled the magic on me, or metal, or both. I could run about, barely dressed as he, but I yet walk both worlds.

I fear he will soon think me too stupid to bother associating with, my tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth as I argue with myself. I come to the present, his secret smile upon me, “They are fun, I admit, but I rely on my legs and wits more than anything. When something holds little value, one wonders if it is appropriate an offering.”

“Again,” he lightly shrugs, “it's a sense of the personal which makes something a fit sacrifice.” Yes, I do know. I want to beg him to take me back through the fairy ring, but already he shields his eyes from the dawn. “Lovely time of day, but again, a border.”

“Perhaps now I owe you, for the favor you've shown me?” I try to tease.

“Obligation's a strange thing, when the obligor is unwilling, and the obliged is feeling generous. But aye, I ought to my domaine,” he sweeps his arm back, indicating the whole of the forest. The Border Forest. The Jester laughs in the faun’s smirk.

“Unwilling? Uncertain is not unwilling.”

“I feel no need to place any obligations 'pon ye. Your own choice to a lonesome tree and to drift from the world Men make,” his horns nod to Alendir’s tree. “It feels a fit border, one few care dance the forth and back o'er. Lest ye become an outsider to each.” After disentangling his words in my muddled mind, I admit to feeling a little confused. “Again, I am to what is mine, and ye to yours. I suppose though I'd ask ye to think on where ye belong.” He taps his horned temple, secretive smirk in place.

“Good question,” I stupidly answer.

“One ye and,” he waves to indicate all the world, “all else ought ask each dawn, else what's the point? A long life rudderless is,” here he pauses, eyes squinting. “Well, I'm glad not to ken it. Be well whilst ye think, and do your leggin' and witting.” He winks, twisting on his hoof with a flourish of his beautiful cloak. And then he is gone.

I bite my lip to stop the sudden tears. That is the heart of the problem, was it not? Dancing on the borders of the different worlds, where do I belong?


Laurelin rouses from reverie, rubbing her face into her furs. Sighing, she stares at the newly painted ceiling. “I still do not know where I belong, Seamus. Though not for a lack of trying.”

She pulls herself up just enough to crawl to the altar, then dropping to her knees. Pouring two cups full of mead, one overflowing, she lifts the other in toast to the air above the altar, “I commit myself to another’s dream, and he will not speak to me. Laugh, if You please, but I need Your help. Fair Fey Jester, I need Your voice.” She drains her cup, then places it back upon the altar. Head bowed, she continues her prayers.

[Misty]

I lazily dress in my leathers, Master Seamus’ amused brogue calling from the standing stone, “Such immodesty before the gods.” Though his presence surprises me, for I wonder how much he watched, I am not embarrassed. I laugh. “Seems a lack of walls leads to a decay of civil virtues,” he grins. I giggle. He adjusts his ponytail as I belt the feyblade to my waist.

“One might wonder how long you watched. But I am not that one,” I laugh again.

“Ah, so twilight brings the need to gird about weapons and armor, hmm?” he teases, or possibly challenges. I am not sure.

“Not everyone is friendly in the deeper woods,” the warning many have given, even himself.

“"Friendly" is I suppose a concept to think on. A recognition of commonality of causes and interests, and alliances formed out of the same,” his voice drifts some as he seems to think on it. He gestures to the spot where I spent the time with Kiska, “You abided here for awhile with a friend, yes?”

“I have,” I smile.

“And your commonality of interest is....?” his voice trails off again, waiting.

I take a moment to word my answer correctly, realising it was silly to do so. “Love.”

“That is a pleasant thing,” he gives a broad smile, and I wonder why I am happy at the acceptance, or approval of it. “He's oathbound for that Morn fellow's mortal span, but that too shall pass. Let it never present a conflict you cannot overcome.”

“Yes, he is,” I smile at the blessing of sorts. “And it should not,” I add.

“Are you fettered by any of these oathish things?” genuine curiosity in his tone now.

“I want to go back. Leave a proper offering,” I interrupt, then quiet to consider his question. I owe Jewel some loyalty, and by extension of my bond Morn as well. But the only oath that means anything, became far more than an oath only days before. “Only my bond, but that is not so much an oath as the way things are. The rest means little, for it all resides out there,” a vague wave in the direction to Hadreth’s.

He gives a little bob of his horned head in acknowledgment. “It's always something to be wary of, the snares of duty can be tight, and are mostly inspired by the laws of men. Who know their fear in the night, and pretend by promises that they're the greater together in service to each other. Still, they blow away like ash, words, deeds,” he makes a little burst motion with both hands, “poof. All crumbles for them.” He stopped a moment, then gave a small shrug. “The ways of Men. Regardless, you've said you wish return to the deeper heart of the wood?”

“Yes, I do,” I say in earnest. “If I may,” I add.

He smiles again, but I do not think he is mocking me this time. “Do you know the trackless way to the fairy ring then? Unescorted? I ought make the warders loosen up about a midnight guest. Which would send me fly ahead arrow swift.”

“I think I can find it, yes,” my joy rises to be allowed to arrive without escort.

“Then I shall see you there. Step exceeding light,” he warns, putting on his beautiful mottled cloak. With a wink he fades from sight, leaving me to smile. I happily make my way to the fairy ring, not hard, listening for others in the forest as I step lightly around the trees.

I approach, as hidden as I can be, pressed against the stone. Master Seamus gives me a small wave, walking up to me. My hood falls off looking up to him. He unstraps his baldric, handing the quiver to the nearby Thorn. “Won’t be needing this,” he says softly, then turns to me, “Bring as you will, but ware unsheathing anything, hmm?”

I give a single nod, tiptoeing after him through the fey toadstools. From isolated pockets here and there come the music of light piping, song, and other signs of life. He nods and greets the other fey within, I can only manage child-like smile of joy, feeling again that I am overdressed, with only my face and hands bare. Here, in the company of fey, I need not worry about leering and drooling. Perhaps I can get a different set of leathers for these excursions. We pass a satyr, and I cannot tell if Master Seamus speaks to him or me when he winks, “Practice as you will, you may win laurels yet.” Either way, I can only laugh. He tells the Hybsil not to ward against us, stepping past.

We approach the ancient steps to the altar, me following his clip-clopping up. He nods to the Thorn above, and bows to the pixies and grigs flitting about. I remember myself and give a small curtsy. One of the grigs rests his wings while sitting on a vine, watching the pair of us.

“It is your wish to do honors here then, to he who would call the tune and rule the dance?” Master Seamus invites, gesturing to the moss-covered stone surrounded by water and lilypads. I nod, immediately pulling an evercold ring from my finger. I set it spinning, then step back, words lost. He murmurs briefly something under breath, possibly an honor to Ilesere, then peers at the ring. “Something not from the hands of men, Elven 'twould seem. You've chosen well then.” I cannot hide the joy at his approval, as it feels my grin will split my very face.

“Lifted, as is best, from those not in need,” I answer, then snicker. Though they complain ever so loud for the loss.

He smiles again, “Speaking of lifting, I am unashamed to say I've had the same done, to ye.” He bent to rummage in the clean water around his hooves, pulling up the rapier I left in Hadreth’s Glen. All I can do is laugh. “Elven made, it seems, though it's gone through a lot of hands. Now even mine, though only after yours.” When one lifts goods in tribute to Erevan, one expects to lose to another’s fingers. I applaud him his find. He smirks, adjusting his ponytail with his wet free hand, then offers the rapier back to me. “Let me pipe a moment, and I wish see you try teach the thing to dance. It may be more receptive than you'd ween.”

I take it back, surprise in my blinking eyes. Teach it to dance? I look at the blade, then back to him, his pipes already to his lips. He starts trilling something slow, and unobtrusive against varied songs around. As the nearby music fades, it picks up into a jig. My feet know their business, dancing lightly to his tune. The rapier leaps out of my hand, cutting and thrusting through the air. Though absent a target, it mostly dances in place. I squeal. He blows a trilling fast tune, I try to keep up, almost stumbling into the water he stands in.

When he lets the reeds fall from his lips, I realise I am gasping for air. He bends low to drink of the water from a cupped hand.

“I do not know what to say.” I answer myself with, “Thank you.”

“What I do in such circumstance is say naught, and leave folk guessing,” he grins. “Though your choice oft works as well.” A pixie sweeps the ring into the water. He looks up to the odd sky, “The witching hour seems now just past, fine enough time to trill a tune though.” I look up to the strange sky, the stars in a pattern unfamiliar to me. It seems past midnight. “They dance, too, to suit needs,” he points up. “Though seldom so fast as to let a mortal appreciate it. One needs a spate of patience. All I suppose take their practice and patience,” he gives a small shrug. “Mastery comes though.” He smacks dry lips, pulling up a wineskin. Pipes in one hand, flask in the other, he drinks deeply. “Rude of me, but I shall not forget a guest,” he offers the skin to me.

I hesitate before accepting, “I've been warned against the drink of the fey.”

He smirks at me over the pipes on his lips, “Fear our power over you?”

I laugh, my mouth feeling drier for the effort. I cannot refuse this adventure, and take a long drink. Strong as spirits and equally as flowery, it soothes my parched throat. I give it back, watching him take another long drink before securing it on his belt. Drunk in his company, and drunk again on the wine, I leap to dance to his trilling pipes. A pixie joins the dance, then a nixie from the nearby water. Indescribable delight is mine, catching a flash of Master Seamus’ mirthful eyes.


Laurelin woke, smiling at the memory. Not long past, yet it felt lifetimes ago. Happy then, in the world of the savage fey. She rose from her furs to make tea, looking about her new home. A few faint prints of pixie-like shapes on the wall congregate and crowd together in darker hue upon the ceiling, in varied shades of green, blues, and purples. Higher up, if one spent the time to look, were the shapes of other fey, satyrs, nixies, pixies, dryads and even treants, bodies twisting in dance.

[Brokenbone]

Good a thing as any for reverie, nice to see a fun Rystall wood memory!

[Misty]

Laurelin shivered in the shadowed crevice between two large rocks, squinting to the north. Another patrol on the ridge, but a small one. Five humans, clad in armor large enough to know it was lined in furs, bearing the offensive green and black of the Zhentarim. Only five, she could easily kill them. A few years ago, she would have. A few years ago, she had nothing to lose. They had taken it all.

She blew into her hands, trying to warm them. Cold weather with her evercold cloak made for a miserable time scouting. The solitude she enjoyed, the discoveries affirmed her sense of purpose, but the cold taxed her strength. She longed to be home again, with the warm rains and warmer company awaiting her.

Faint, predawn light had just caressed the clouds above, it was time to leave. She eased herself out of the crevice, creeping north first. A scout never, ever returns straight home unless the situation is dire. On the bare chance that she was spotted, she moved further and further away from the camp.

The sky grew brighter, she heard no one following. She breathed a prayer to the Chameleon, shrugging the cloak off her shoulders. It slid into her bag, far from the sunlight that threatened, while she rubbed her upper arms. So damned cold. Her hands folded around her pendant, thoughts drifting to the one who gave it to her. She stopped herself, lifting her hands to blow into them for the hundredth time that night. No time for distraction, not here, not now.

She listened for followers, nodding once to herself after five minutes had passed with neither sight nor sound of one. Her feet slowly turned east, then south to rejoin the camp. It was time to report her findings, plan what they could, check on the noble, speak with the others, eat something, and maybe, once the sun melted the night’s frost, some rest. She would have to return to the field come evening.

[Misty]

Cirdan sat in the circle with the others, his head bowed. Again they spent too many hours deciding what to do about his unruly daughter. Her most recent mischief the worst by far, but he could say nothing. All of this, he agreed to all of this for her sake, and now they speak of how to rid themselves of her. He dared not say it was his fault. It would not matter, not anymore.

She had exposed their presence to the humans. Some, like her mother, argued it was intentional, others claimed it was an accident. It did not matter, and Cirdan knew it. The destruction and exposure together made for the worst crime yet.

She drank her weight in mead. Celendur claimed to aid her, but they knew he did not. Everyone knew he could not speak after half a bottle. Nor would he have destroyed his father’s laboratory. Or undo the wards around the secluded mimic of a village. Or paint the tents pink with crude images. Cirdan wanted to speak up, claim it was his fault, promise futilely to control her. None of it would matter this time.

The council decided: time had come for Laurelin to leave. Cirdan said nothing. When she was called before the council, he could not help but admire her spirit. Back straight, hair falling to her knees with dozens of flowers plaited into it, she looked as her mother. Her real mother, he dared to think. Her defiance did not last. Upon the verdict of banishment, she returned to the child she was: petulant, pleading, promising changes she could not deliver, all falling on deaf ears. They had heard it all before.

His throat closed when she turned to beg him to change their minds. He could not. He dared not. She screamed at him. She insulted the others. She spat at her mother. Electric anger, he called it. Striking white hot one second, and gone the next. He closed his eyes, her voice still ringing in his ears when Celuldur cast the geas. She had no choice but to leave. And when she fulfilled the terms and turned around, she would not find them.

Thirty minutes later, her feet showed before his. She had packed what little she possessed. He looked up, blinking once. She cut her hair too short, the teartracks on her cheeks dry, but her eyes filled with water. She had to leave, or the magic would hurt her. He stood, hugging her tight.

“You do not belong here anymore, and I think you know it,” he whispered.

“But Daddy,” she started, her chin shaking.

“Laurelin, someday you will understand.” He wanted to follow her, promise to look over her, as a father should. He could not tell her any of this. She had to grow up.

“But-“ she started again, and again he cut her words short.

“You have to know when to let go.”

[Misty]

I feel so very old. So very tired. I see myself turning into one of those joyless creatures, and for once, do not care.

We search and fight to find these precious tel’kiira while the rest of the army dies to our foe. We are not without casualties. Two fo the Queen’s guard died for our success.

Will we find the loregems? Yes, of course. We’ve a clever, intelligent and capable group.

Will we find them in time? I fear not. How many of our kin will yet live when we finally obtain the tel’kiira and selu’kiira? Of those, how many would still be able to fight Sarya’s army?

I hear Delawyn speak words that I once preached, “For today however, I'm going to sit here, and remember what it's like to be warm and move without plate armor.” Enjoying the now while one may. He and Roderick play, laugh, relax.

Laugh while you may, Jester, for I cannot.

[Misty]

Was it all a game
To humor the broken,
When twas ‘Sister’
your lips had spoken?

Affection and joy
I thought we held,
Through quiet talks
Or when we yelled.

Instead we find,
That I’m a Fool,
No respect or trust,
Naught but a tool.

The painful truth
I did collect:
Friends abandon,
Families reject.

[Misty]

Laurelin sits on the floor of the small room, leaning against the warm bath. Isiola continues to improve, the cuts and bruises fading as she rests. Always quiet, even in her pain, Laurelin could not help but be curious about her story. Who was she? How did she come into the Queen’s service? How did she get appointed to protect the young Starym?

Isania takes reverie in the opposite corner, the lines of worry invisible until she rouses again. Eventually the guilt she carries will lessen, but not for many years after the war is ended. Laurelin closes her eyes, hands folded around her pendant as she listens to their even breathing, hers soon finding its own smooth rhythm.

.


Faces, so many faces of the Evermeet Guard, yet fewer than when she first contacted him through the shared bond the amulet provided. So many stories shared this way, the few joys swimming in the sea of sorrowful duty, she seeks her own joy. Only one other could claim to be her Joy, and he rests in Arvandor. There, resting against a tree, the dim embers highlight his ear and tangled hair. Even in reverie, the lines of worry do not leave his eyes.

“My beloved,” she starts, the words a whisper in her mind. The other voices, faces, stories fade as his mind opens to hers. In their shared state, she begins again, “My Beloved, would that I could walk with you.”

His mind’s voice comes to her, “Would that I could hold you,” his words happy, but heavy with strain. If only she could remove the worry, but nothing short of winning the war could do that. More kin fall, he shows her, so many more die in holding off the demon army, waiting for the Starym tel’kiira to be found. Love shared drowns the rising guilt. They must hurry, yet cannot while the Queen’s guard heal. The few that are left, for half fell in protecting the young Starym. She shares fleeting images of their fighting and flighting from Semberholme to the current eversoaked port city where she awaits the next direction.

This port city rumored to hold no redeeming value. What little Laurelin had seen supports this. The gate guards repel everyone with bolts lest they hold certain papers. But no one yet tells how to obtain the papers. Pray that the ‘kiira does not sit within the city. Hints thus far suggest it is not, yet Laurelin’s uncertainty echoes between the pair. The Art has a way of not always following the rules the mages claim. She suppresses the bitterest of memories that demonstrates this for their time together is, as ever, too short.

The ‘kiira will be found.

The war will end.

They part with renewed spirits, him in the depths of the Cormanthyr, and her far to the west.






The faintest hint of a dream dances at the edge of her mind, not yet daring to show itself. It is far too soon to hope for her own dreams.