Knights of Anathaeum Maunivita of the Vagrant Wood

[Isander]

As the sun painted a lazy line across the sky, so did Isander approach the hay-roofed hut on the outskirts of Svapna. He carried a saunter in his step, an ease about his crest. Routine, almost, some measure of familiarity guiding him.

Svapna sat on the frontier, a town of small layers stitched together with farmsteads scattered throughout the marsh and sprawling woods. Seldom a route for trade, it was a sturdy home for a determined few. They needed such strength to weather the Wilds. It often lent for a contentious relationship with travelers, occasioning even the western tax collectors to step warily along Svapna's cobbles.

These folk looked out for one another. No one else would do it for them. Reasonable folk, usually, but panic forewent sense.

Rumors had circulated earlier: accusations of thievery, acts of the foulest arcane, and the locals spared no breath decrying the nearby witch.

Ekaterina by name, she had lived a quiet life in the antecedent years, an almost fae existence that offered remedials and advice to any willing to lend an ear. Hers was a shoulder most acquainted with the tears of the bereft, eyes lidded with the tides of empathy. And still they accused her.

Not uncommon in the heart of the Valen, but it weighed heavy on Isander's shoulder.

In leather and maille, righting the sheathed spear crooked against an elbow, he gave his companions a nod and knocked at witch's door. His knuckles rapped dully, muffled to near silence with each subsequent thump.

"Mother," he said in the lilting notes of intonation, "we have come to your aid."

The door creaked open, a sliver then a crack, and a voice answered back:

“Knights,” she breathed.
“Knights,” she cackled.
“Knights,” she scoffed.

Her eyes a dawning blue, cracked and kaleidoscopic as she stared at once longingly and contemptuously at them. Swathed in velvet of blue and green, hair set in braided knots that ended in copper rings, the witch crooked a finger and invited them in.

Isaander, standing on ceremony, bowed his head and entered.

 

[Farren Lóthlindor]

A black cat slipped through the opening, barely a sound as it crossed the threshold into Ekaterina's abode. Farren moved with feline grace, stormy grey eyes wide with cautious curiosity as they absorbed the interior. The room, an eclectic mix of warmth and arcane mystique, bore testament to the woman's taste for the enchanting. A witch indeed.

Upon entering, Farren leapt onto a small round table at the room's center. Perched there, she quietly observed the exchange of Isander's respectful bow and Ekaterina's cryptic response. Despite the strange welcoming from their host, her whiskers twitched with the feel of skepticism and distrust in the air. She didn't blame Ekaterina for feeling this way. She owed them nothing, especially when faced with the possibility of her townspeople turning on her.

But her and Isander were here to find out the truth and help if they could. It was part of the reason why Farren volunteered on this trek with the pensive Dawnling, for her druid heart resonated with the witch's struggle. For the mission reminded her of moments when she, too, had felt the sting of being misjudged for seeking to wield the innate magic of her people, even if it was intended for good.

People feared what they didn't understand. It was why Farren so often preferred the realms of Loch and dreams, and the warm friendships of the animals of the Valen Wilds.

The Dusker had chosen to begin their encounter as a cat, as she didn't want to stress this woman out more than she already was by overwhelming her with two knights questioning her at once. That, and as a witch, perhaps she would find comfort in Farren's current form.

But there was one last thing that she and Isander had prepared for.

In this form, the shapeshifter could tell if the woman was lying.

It was something her oba had taught years before during one of their annual treks to the Eldyr Tree.

Isander could ask his question as he liked, and Farren would do her best to signal him if a falsehood fell from the woman's lips.

Isander

 

[Isander]

Placid neutrality crossed Isander's countenance as the cat crossed the threshold. His gaze flickered to it, returning to Ekaterina with only a shrug for acknowledgement. Preparation had tempered his surprise, conferred enough decorum for him to ignore it. Mostly.

The door shut behind them as he stepped across its frame heralded but with a quiet rush of air. Heaviness filled the cabin's interior. The scent of aged wood and smoke, of leaves fresh the kiss of rain. A shifting medley that Isander could not distinguish. It did not linger, instead crept with a languid ease, a patience that chided his own inability to place its origin.

It lent movement to the air. Warmth. Denied him focus, as he had suspected it might.

His breathing slowed with it, hastened at the intervals between, and imposed awareness of the laden maille upon his breast. The padding and cloth, the muted rattle of chain. The woman ahead, standing with arms crossed, now slouched; now straight and beckoning for them to sit.

Ekaterina spoke, and Isander listened:

"Isan," she whispered.
"You," she spat.
"--," she pled.

He found himself sitting, back fitted to the arch of a chair cushioned in velvet and plush. The myopic slurry preceding him came vague in the gossamer lull between his thoughts. Made passenger of him and sculpted his form to the function desired: passivity. Familiarity indeed had proved no better armor than swaddling cloth.

He let his breathing still, strained to scrawl out the gaps left in the witch's frame of him. Sweat slicked the backs of his wrist as he recalled himself.

Ekaterina had set aside milk for the cat and an empty decanter for him.

Drawing composure tight to chest, he said, "Why are such accusations leveled against you, Ekaterina?" and as the name left his lips so did the tension dissipate.

Amusement flashed in the wry of the witch's eyes.

"It is their nature to suspect what cannot be comprehended," she said in crystal chimes. "Am I to be blamed for the likely work of brigands now? Me, who supersedes Svapna's first foundling creeks? You do well to honor me, Isan, as would they, should sense be granted them." Petulance. It suited her.

Isander held his peace, looking first to his companion before bandying words with the witch.


Farren Lóthlindor

 

[Farren Lóthlindor]

From her elevated position on the small table, Farren absorbed the interchange between Isander and Ekaterina. The witch wielded cryptic words like spells, evoking a dance of veiled truths. Bitter amusement, petulance, caused ripples across the room. The air was thick with insinuation, and Farren felt it coil around her like an invisible vine.

She watched as Isander, always calm and composed, sought to unravel the enigma of the accusations. The brewing confrontation bristled with the potential for misinterpretation. Yet, in Ekaterina's eyes, Farren saw more than a hint of truth masked by defiance.

Sensing the Dawnling's subtle attention, the black cat answered his silent question with a quick twitch of her whiskers.

Truth.

Isander

 

[Isander]

Nodding, Isander gave himself a moment's thought before speaking. It stretched into that heavy silence, broken by occasional cackles of embers stirring in the hearth.

He found his hands running the length of the decanter by his side and froze, gaze sliding from the witch to take account of his belongings. Spear, shield, and cloak were all bundled neatly at the foot of his chair. Folded, propped, laid within easy reach. Some residual bleariness yet gripped him. He cleared his throat.

"Far be it from me to mistake rumor for truth," Isander said. "I recall the folk of Svapna possessing some measure of sense, however. Perhaps less where respect should be concerned, but enough sense to avoid levying accusations without warrant. What changed?"

Ekaterina smiled indulgently at the knights.

"Am I to know the inner turnings of such fickle hearts?"

A coy look was flicked at the cat. A shrewd look. Gentle amusement all too knowing to be wholly innocent. She adjusted the shawl about her, dusted the pale of her skin in velvet hues that struck viridian then crimson before settling as formless, twilit wool. A long stemmed pipe appeared between her lips, and she pursed them in consideration as she took an empty pull.

"Introduce me, Isan," she said, closing the curtain on their game.

Isander sighed.

"Farren," he said, "would you care to address the Mother?"


Farren Lóthlindor

 

[Farren Lóthlindor]

The Loch was a place to pull dreams from within. Illusions. To not only make them, but to take its clear dark waters and wash your eyes anew, so one could see through those very illusions. Farren scooped now from that deep pool and felt its coldness clear her vision, so when she opened her now shining feline eyes, many pieces and odds and ends within the witch's hut glowed with a soft magical outline. She knew if she spent the time to look closer and unravel each thread of these illusions, she could bring them to light for the naked eye—make them visible to any who looked on without magic.

But instead, she leveled a cryptic stare at Ekaterina, the outline of the woman now dancing with a strong cadence of shackled illusion magic. This magic looked old. As if it had been held in place for a long time, the magic feeding it uninterrupted and plentiful. It left zero loose threads for the Dusker to tug on. It seemed there was no obvious end or beginning, nothing to unravel.

Farren squinted, a wary respect forming. Perhaps they should tread with even more caution until they knew more.

Isander's sigh garnered her attention, and his question even more. Taking her time, she languidly arched her back and stretched, as any cat had a right to do. Only then did allow her transformation to drip silver flames onto the floor. Taking her cat grace with it and leaving the blonde Dusk Knight to sit primly on the end of the table, her legs crossed and hands casually gripping the edge.

With a warm smile, she answered, "Hmmm, I think that would depend on how exactly the Mother would like to be addressed? I have a feeling you've had many names before this one. I would not mind calling you by an old favorite if it pleased you."

Isander

 

[Isander]

Isander drew tight reign over his surprise, loosing only a blink before he could fully extinguish it. Between the flames and the knight's so casual appearance at the edge of the table, and the songling aura of Ekaterina's hut, Isander found his equilibrium thoroughly pricked. Managing it took the better part of his composure. He held himself at attention, gripped to the chair for what support such posturing could offer.

Ekaterina ignored his discomfiture.

Brushing back the ochre strands of her hair, she knitted it to a fond braid that crooked off her shoulder. She adopted a considering slouch and smiled, all fine lines with eyes that sagged, opaque pools that dribbled at the corners.

"Any name for you, sweetling," she said, chewing around the stem of her pipe, "but Ekaterina serves me kindly."

Delight alighted within the nebulous thrum of her, eschewed quickly in a breath of smoke. She tapped out the pipe and skipped over to the knight. Her hands were clasped between them, fingers steepled and empty, nails a garish yellow and knuckles like gnarled roots. They made marionettes to trip along that space, casting shadows deep into the faded embers of magic that played counterpoint to her own.

"Are you as Isan, all logic and reason, always so knowing? Or"—and her eyes took a wicked cast—"can you hear to the changling mind of things and feel?"

Another word slipped her lips, absent sound as it passed. Enmeshed in seeming, she was further from the knights; her presence created a triangle between them with herself at its fore.


Farren Lóthlindor

 

[Farren Lóthlindor]

So it was to be a game of riddles and twisted words between them then?

How very like her kind. Farren thought. Wondering if Isan had caught on yet to what was happening or if he was still reeling from the frenetically capricious nature of their host. She dared not spare a glance his way, for a creature like Ekaterina demanded the Dusker's full attention.

Nodding in deference, Farren answered the woman, "I would be a poorer Knight if I lost myself and knew only logic and reason. You say all-knowing, but I think the world works better if there's a bit of..." She hesitated, the probing energy of Ekaterina magic inspiring the hair to stand on her nape. The feeling retreated and she quickly decided to act as if she noticed nothing. Instead, Farren smirked before finally stating, "Mystery. I prefer a bit of mystery."

On the last word, Farren slid from the table to stand at its end with arms crossed casually. "And sometimes, we're called to solve those mysteries." Finally, Farren looked at Isander. "Which... as he stated, is why we are here today. Will you answer our questions?"

Isander

 

[Isander]

The strands of him came gossamer in the mire of the witch's hut. Isander took to composing himself, meticulously rolling together each piece into form; determination, purpose, the very fibers comprising the dreams of his self. He forged them together, fought back against the siren song that hummed at the edge of perception.

In his wake, Ekaterina smiled, teeth white in the glister of knowing. She stood between them, a confluence of empathy that crooned at the Knights.

"For you," she said; "Only for you, sweetling."

The liquid of her eyes coalesced, focusing only on Farren. A dawning blue, a sickly pale, the witch bore herself full before them. She leaned forth, plucked the emptied pitcher, and cradled it to her chest.

"Ask," she said.
"Ask," came the demand.
"Ask," she taunted.

Should you dare.

Isander rose, fingers pale from their grip on the chair. The weight of it drew his breath ragged, requiring an effort that shone slick at his brow. He rose, a warning frown directed to his companion.

The witch set the pitcher against him, now full, sloshing wet onto the deep-grained floor.


Farren Lóthlindor

 

[Farren Lóthlindor]

Farren's eyes briefly met Isan's as the witch was distracted while handing him the pitcher. She tucked her chin into a quick discouraging shake. No. Let me handle this.

There again that limpid gaze was back on her. An air of expectation hung with a predatory eagerness. The witch waited for the Dusker's questions, to have something to sink her rotted teeth into. But Farren felt as if this woman, this creature, already knew what she would ask.

So although a cold sweat had sprouted on her brow and dried her mouth, Farren knew that brazen gall went far in the way Fae played cat and mouse.

But she was no mouse.

She was the owl that caught the mouse. The cat that ripped the owl from the sky. The wolf that chased down the feline. And the elk that gave pause to the hungering wolf.

"Did you do it then? Did you take them, Ekaterina."

Isander

 

[Isander]

Ekaterina's face cracked in a long toothed grin, flesh drawn taut and pale to match the glint in her gaze. Her fingers unfurled, twitching apart as the nails clicked together. She was leaning in closer to Farren, suspended in between the knights with a gentle crook to her neck.

"And what price will you pay, kitten?"

Again the chorus:

"Ask," came the croon.
"Ask," she said.
"Ask—" and the dawning blue of her eye crashed deep, tearing the visage of fragility from her face. In its place, bereft the teasing and taunts, the witch bore a wicked countenance: Cheeks pallid and lined, chin chipped and contiguous with the rolling thaum about her neck, and a hum began to quiver from her chest. She stood hunched, ear hovering close in anticipation of reply.

Through it all, Isander yet collected the shattered globules of his wit. He had a pitcher in hand, the other braced against a forehead slick with the beads of sweat.


Farren Lóthlindor

 

[Farren Lóthlindor]

She felt the clicks of those nails dance down the steps of her spine, but still Farren stood tall and matched the witch's piercing gaze, despite the way her hand trembled under their weight.

The air began to feel heavy, like the aura around the witch had grown dense and Farren had to fight to draw breath around her. Her limbs trapped at her side by the pressure, her tongue a dead log in her mouth.

All she could manage was a twitch of her head, but it was enough to jostle her braid and a clear tolling of silver bells rent the air, far louder than they should have been. Yet the sound cut through the air and Farren drew in a deep shaky breath, her body relaxing as if invisible strings had been severed.

Wordlessly, she reached into a small leather pouch at her belt and withdrew an object small enough to be concealed within her closed fist.

"I found this in front of your hut." Farren uncurled bloodless fingers to reveal a shiny copper colored acorn. Such a small thing, but its existence was evidence of a grander game between them. "There are no oaks in this part of the forest, Ekaterina." Her eyes lit with a silver fire, intense in the quiet way that was Farren.

"Tell me. Where are we really?"

Isander

 

[Isander]

Ekaterina preened over the acorn, a mewling pleasure torn from her throat. Less than a laugh, tenor but shy of a growl. She unfurled, shoulders like wings crooked to envelope the fixture of light that no longer warmed the room. In its stead lay a silt film, a grain that crossed the timbered frame. A grit that settled about the teeth, filled the lung with stagnation.

"Oh sweetling," the witch said, voice coalescing in a single, tinny note.

With sudden slow, she brought her hands together and idled out a resonant thrum. The scent of a bog, stillwater and brittle peat; of a midsummer's breeze, a clarifying thing. It poured from oily palms, from a space left bare between.

The hut unraveled. Furniture creaked, chairs skittering on legs of chitinous clicks; curtains aflutter in a tangle of leaf and vine; pieces of familiarity that ruptured into fractal light, a viscous rebound from former seeming. Between breaths, it stilled, finding form in the clearing they had entered some hours earlier: an outcropping of stone ringed by out of countenance trees, manycolored hedges peppering a budding meadow. They undulated, recoiling from the trio to leave a near perfect circle around them.

Some semblance remained. The pitcher yet rested, perched in singularity upon a cleared patch of dirt, undisturbed but for its proximity between the Knights.

Ekaterina admonished them.

"Some natures are best occluded by a touch of glamour. They can be turbulent, unkind at the best of times," she said. Setting a hand to the small of her back, she straightened to a height that dwarfed them both. She adopted a patient smile, a lecturing tilt about the chin.

"Why, we are where we've always been. Lost betwixt the Ley."


Farren Lóthlindor