Fable - Ask Shadow and Ash | Why We Fight

[Sára'úri]

Whispers in the camps.

Stories.

Proclamations of those who, by their own admission, should never had made it back alive.

But she saved them.
​

They could not say who. Her face was covered by the mask of a dark helm, and a shadow cast by her hood. But her sword glimmered as one of the Aerai's did, and it slew even the most terrible foes like lambs to the slaughter. But never so much as a word.

Never any sign of her with the assembled forces...

A spectre. A phantom who taken up the sword of an Aerai against the cursed ones.

And truly, for it seemed that of all the Aerai, for all they said of their telepathy, none could feel the presence of another one of them out there.

They say she dwelt in the ruins of Ilmarin, a lone temple in the forest, just a few kilometers from Nórë Sérë... a place almost hallowed in solemn reverence by the Aerai. Some of the allied forces, however... they say that place is haunted, and so is anywhere near there.

---

One was never safe in the dark. Not this dark. And not even here, in this sacred place. There in the great hall of a long forgotten temple of her people, she found herself met with almost a dozen unwelcome guests. Most of them were monsters, but she could see those cursed brethren of hers - and only for them did she utter a single warning.

"Turn back," she commanded, grasping her sword and drawing it free from its sheath.

At her back, a grand image of Astra stood tall, her arms and eyes beholding above.

They were silent, not so much as a hiss, and they moved upon her.

Steeled was her gaze. Blazing was the magic in her eyes, peeking from behind her helm. Her sword was alight with electric power, unleashed only in brilliant, controlled strikes with every blow. One dark monster fell, and then another. Clashing blades with one of her fallen kin, though sorrowful, was swift. They too, fell.

And nearly as quickly as they had come upon her, the monsters had found their end.

For a moment she looked upon those who had been cursed by the evil in their land, and she bid their souls a peaceful sleep. And then there in the midst of all those she had slain, she knelt. She set her sword there before her. She lifted the helm from her head, and set it there just beside. And then she laced her hands with her index fingers pointed up, and her thumbs as well. Her elbows dropped, her chin lifted, and her eyes became closed.

"To thee, Nykios, I slay these: these servants of the dark,
forgive me, forgive my failure.
Open the gates of your halls -
let my offerings be for those.
Punish not for my failure
for deeds left undone
...
forgive me."​

And quite some time did she remain like this, reciting this plea again and again.

And then she stopped. Her elven ears rarely failed her, and always she trusted them. But in her gut she trusted far more. She hadn't heard anything, but she had felt something. She took in a deep, relaxed breath. Her hands fell onto her lap.

 

[Maveriel Valthoras]

Whatever her motivation, her reason, her purpose, she had been driven to these ruins, and ‘she’ was more than one woman. Whispers in the camps. Stories. Haunted forests. Blighted environments. Truthfully they were nothing too new to her at least. To either woman, potentially.

Cautious in her trek, Mave was nonetheless brave and adventurous. Danger lurked everywhere, some dangers worse than others, but if this elf turned away from every occasion to discover then she would go nowhere, be nobody, certainly no explorer.

Today, those hauntings were calling her name as much as another’s. In grey green garments, bow and arrows on back and sword at hip, she explored with vigilance. Forest to temple, she moved forth.

Yet when she stepped past the entrance to the ruins, toward the great hall, she sensed death, a recent stench, and heard words as a whisper in the distance. Ever ready to deal with any threat, the elf kept a hand on her scabbard, hood over head, and carefully advanced.

“What is it you seek forgiveness for?”

Her words gave a low echo in the empty quiet, spoken gently so as not to startle the figure who was evidently responsible for the other figures, though why anyone would need forgiveness for killing monsters was beyond her.

Sára'úri

 

[Sára'úri]

Though she made no movement, no indication which would betray it, she was indeed startled by the sudden voice behind her. But in it she heard only caution and benevolence. With focus she perceived the faint footfalls of what could only be elf-kin, but it was a presence she did not recognize in any way. Someone foreign to these broken lands.

"There are many wrongs that must be answered for," she replied, however cryptic.

Up on one knee. The sword on the ground before her lifted from its place. Up now to her feet, her movements passive and obvious. Her hand reached out, grasping the sword, leading it peacefully into its sheath on her hip. Her helmet similarly lifted from its place on the floor, up into Sára'úri's hand, who then tucked it under her arm.

She turned, and faced the newcomer, "these are but offerings."

---

Maveriel Valthoras ​

 

[Maveriel Valthoras]

The figure, a woman, elven, mentioned wrongs that must be answered for as an answer to the question of forgiveness sought. Mave repeated those words back to herself in her head, reflecting on them for a second, suddenly feeling like their positions were reversed, and it was this other woman who had beckoned that question to her.

Wrongs that must be answered for… Maybe it was the power shared between them, that of elven grace, splendor, though it could just be this place, these shadowed walls and halls of darkness. Whatever it was, Mave did not sense that her counterpart was a dark elf, but she felt like they may already be on the same page.

An explorer, that’s who the red-haired warrior was, but maybe she had wandered this far for her own pardons in the dark. Yet this moment wasn’t Mave’s but this other person’s who stood with the slain. Her answer may have been cryptic amid whatever ritualistic practice she had performed with her sword and offerings but there was clearly more to it.

The woman’s blade sheathed, Mave’s already, the latter took a moment to study the former figure from face to armor. Both women were naturally about the same height and build, but of purposes undetermined.

“Offerings,” Mave spoke aloud, studying the bodies, her tone as much of a statement as a question. “Sacrifices?” Pointed this time, but not in judgment. These creatures were nothing to her as she carefully began to step forward toward both them and the woman. “Is their blood enough?”

Sára'úri

 

[Sára'úri]

"No," came her reply, abrupt and quiet, almost a whisper, "it is not."

Sára'úri remained in place as Mave approached. Her gaze remained on her as she stepped nearer, following her movements with only her head and eyes, studying her all the while. To the Aerai, this other elf looked to be of the western woods, far closer to the kinship in Fal'Addas than her more eastern brethren here in Aeraesar. If this were so, then she had come far from home, and had curiously been found in the most dreadful of places.

"To each their own trials, and to them each their own rewards," she said, though her attention seemed to wander away from the red haired elf, wandering up and across the tall, graven images of timeless gods that stood up along either side of the cathedral.

After she'd seemingly lost herself to her thoughts for a moment, her eyes fell again to Mave, and she said, "why have to come here, cousin-kin?"

---

Maveriel Valthoras ​

 

[Maveriel Valthoras]

Trials. Rewards. These dead dread beasts, senseless in their sentience, not given to the depravity of sapient creatures, had met clean ends, after a manner. In their ferocity or voracity they had pounced and were put down. Others, however, some in their midst, were those angular elven faces glimpsed; bearded men; tusked orc. Fallen. They fell as before, by the blade of their justice, but they had already long since fallen.

Mave studied them, aware that she was being studied by her contemporary, though there was no animosity in the still air of this repellent pit. A grievous ruin she had yet dared to enter into in order to stand there this moment, staring at those fallen faces, and their kindred fiends who joined their voices in death.

“Why have I come here..?” She repeated the question, neither uncertain nor expectant, shifting her attention from the denizens of the dead to the only other living person in this hall. Elven, both of them, armed or armored with the instruments to answer the call of judgment, but perhaps theirs was different.

“For forgiveness.” Cryptic, but no less specific. “Trials. Rewards.” She stepped forward, closer, and lowered her hood. “Maveriel Valthoras.” No moniker. No titles. “And who are you, vanquisher?”

Sára'úri

 

[Sára'úri]

"Sára," she replied, "Sára'úri."

Likewise, she shared no moniker, for in her mind there was only one she held, and it was one of shame, one to be left unspoken.

"If it is forgiveness you seek, Maveriel Valthoras, you will find it a distant thing in these lands. Your rewards will likely be few, but trials are aplenty."

Though there was no lack of stoicism in her voice, one would have to be blind to sense the sorrow in her.

Then, after a quiet moment of contemplation, she said, "come. There are better places for us to dwell."

With that she turned and started on her way, showing no concern as to whether or not Mave followed her. She made her way through a grand archway and left the cathedral's grand hall, venturing down a wide corridor on deeper into the temple.

---

Maveriel Valthoras ​

 

[Maveriel Valthoras]

Sára'úri. Sára for short. The name flowed as it curled off the proverbial tip of Maveriel’s tongue, like liquid lyrics in a song, and such a comparison wasn’t wrong; elven names were ever those of grace. Though there’s no grace in this place. Only death. Only darkness. Forgiveness? In a sense, though for both women it would be different.

Yes, there was sorrow in Sára’s visage, as far as it could be detected by eyes naked, eyes amber, eyes of firelight in the right light, but not in this darkness. Mave’s elven companion was right: there were better places to dwell in for conversations than the hell that had taken these creatures by the blade and bane of their vanquisher.

Mave offered no response after her counterpart talked, saving it for later, remaining silent as the pair of elven women navigated their way through a grand archway. There was much and more to see—walls painted, stones paved, sculptures faced—and little and less—for death was at every corner, lingering as a stench.

The woodland elf’s guard was up, walking with fingers shifting between a resting position on sheathed sword or string of bow over her chest. No arrow drawn, no threat witnessed, but who knew what might happen the deeper they ventured?

“What is enough?” The question was spoken just so, with no hesitation, and Mave expected no deception. She inquired after her companion the moment she spied a chamber beside her, speaking again before Sára might answer. “A choir.”

Song, though not of cheer, not anymore. As she entered, the chamber had the furniture fit for a choir to practice within, or perform for an audience, furnished with equipment like bench and podium; but it was quiet, vacant, and as naked as death permeated every element of this forsaken temple.

“How much blood?” Not a question in judgment as Mave wrestled with her own sorrow. A lone finger grazed the bench, greeted the dust, came up black as ash, as eyes glimpsed the rust of a trumpet as silent as all was lifeless.

Sára'úri

 

[Sára'úri]

She stopped. She turned as Mave did, and came to the chamber's entryway to wait while her newfound companion made herself familiar with where she had found herself.

"A choir," she echoed in affirmation, though she said little else for a few moments. She too took a moment to look into the chamber, dark as it was, and in that moment she remembered.

What is enough? How much blood? Each question fair in its curiosity, but each one without a true answer. It was these very questions that for over a century had plagued her very own mind, and with the felling of each foul beast and the rising above of each new trial, each time the question was remembered.

Will it ever be enough? Could anything?

Sad eyes once again fell upon the woodland elf, and she said, "I do not know."

Then she turned from there and departed from that place, on further down the corridor to a stairway leading up. To the next floor, and a short ways down another hall, they came to a doorway. With the gentle wave of her hand the door was made open. They entered into a chamber that was unlike the rest. It was clear that Sára frequented this place, if she didn't dwell here. There was a bed and a few chairs, there were bookshelves well kept and items placed neatly here and there.

"We will be safe here," she said, confident after many years that her wards were more than enough to mask their presence in this place.

---

Maveriel Valthoras ​