Fate - First Reply Sundered Oath - Shadows at the Western Wood

[Fëanáro Elrohir]

Mehtayar Templar Order Monastery, Fal’Addas​

Cool hewn stone and the dim flicker of candlelight had always been a comforting thing to Fëanáro, the halls of the Order safe and familiar, more so than anywhere else in the world, and yet they did little in that moment to still her agitation.

The serene stillness of the hallways broken by the rattle of well-oiled plate, mail and heavy leather boots as she strode from Speaker’s Chamber, features like a storm and her stride echoing like thunder to herald her approach. Frustration curled her fingers into fists, created a welling need to vent things unsaid, things below her station, she reminded herself. Placing her full helm on one of the sills, her silvered gaze took in the courtyard garden coated in the amber of a dwindling day.

“You are to travel north to the Eldergrove Estate. Lord and Lady Theralyn have requested our help with a delicate matter. You will go alone so as not to bring unwanted attention from the courts.”

Lady Sothrilsil had tasked, before Fëanáro had even spoken, she sensed the elder-elf knew what was coming.

“With respect, my Lady, is this not a task below my title, better suited for a Swordsister?”

One might have called the silence uncomfortable upon Fëanáro’s counter, but everyone knew Lady Sothrilsil had time if nothing else.

“Perhaps. Lord and Lady Theralyn have been supporters of our Order, even when the courts looked upon us with disdain.”

Lady Sothrilsil had regarded Fëanáro in that moment, the way she used to when she was far younger and still learning the Templar ways. Not judgmental, or even scathing, instead curious, and many swore blind they saw the corners of her lips shift into the thinnest of smiles.

“Is it not our place to help those who can not help themselves, to return deeds done unto us with deeds of our own. Is it not our place to burn, purge and tear asunder the unnatural darkness that taints the world, where others can not?”

Another silence followed. Fëanáro knew she could not argue; there was no satisfactory response, and, even more frustratingly, she knew Lady Sothrilsil was aware; she wished to see if arrogance and stubborn pride would bring forth something fruitless.

“It is our duty, our right to be the unending flames against the darkness, to be the light that shines so that others may exist without knowledge of the dark magics that would steal from them what is rightly theirs.”

“Then you shall go north, and you shall help Lord and Lady Theralyn however you must. This is your duty, your right.”

Seeing no reason to reminisce on what could not be changed, Fëanáro mentally shook off her frustrations, cleared her mind, and set out for the barracks to arrange a horse, travel supplies, and, hopefully, the patience to deal with the courtly politics she would no doubt find.

-

Eldergrove Estate, Northern Falwood​

Fëanáro arrived shortly before dusk just as a heavy fog rolled through the densely packed trees either side of the Estates path, bramble heavy and over grown, the building itself looked as though a caretaker had not been present for some years, a sickly sag about the trees making the whole scene just a little more depressing, leafless brown vines coated the outer walls and stone foundations and the garden was littered with decaying debris likely from the previous Fall.

The sound of her horse was loud enough to be an announcement for her arrival and as she dismounted, straightening the curved elvish blade by her hip, she was approached by a younger elven man, she would have described him as ‘squirrelly’, with a long nose.

“Greetings, Swordsister, Fire Sworn-” He moved to bow, a courtly flourish.

“-Knight-Sergeant,” Fëanáro corrected him, curtly.

“Oh, but of course, sincerest apologies, Knight-Sergeant…?” He corrected himself, accompanied by a smile of thinly veiled disdain.

“Fëanáro Elrohir, my Lady Sothrilsil requested I meet with Lord and Lady Theralyn. Quite urgently, if you’d please.” She pressed, already leading the way towards the manor doors.

“Of course, you’ll understand that my mother and father have asked me to deal with your arrival, you see, my sister has taken ill. Quite ill indeed.” The man explained, taking a few quicker steps to open the manor doors for her.

“So you are Ser Edrion.” Fëanáro noted, immediately taking note of the rather dilapidated look of the manor interior, the grand hall, whilst no less grand in size, was faded and worn, aged, “I would request something to slake my thirst and perhaps something warm, as well as my horse tended to if you would be so kind My Lord, I have ridden hard to be present as I am now.”

Ser Edrion offered a courtly bow and backed away before turning on his heels. Fëanáro was sure she spotted a roll of his eyes, perhaps even a scrunch of his hooked nose. Not a squirrel, a cretin, was more apt.

“All I ask is patience, as we are expecting one other before I explain what my Lady-mother wishes from you.” He called back as he moved to vanish behind the grand staircase.

“A Swordsister?” Fëanáro asked in surprise, the slightest frown playing at her tattooed brow.

“Unfortunately, no, another with whom we can share the burden of your task, so that we can be assured the problem is taken care of without delay or worry.” Ser Edrion replied, vanishing into the belly of the manor but not before flashing the Templar Knight-Sergeant a satisfied smirk.

Fëanáro felt the tips of her finely pointed ears burn, as if a task better suited to a single Swordsister was not enough; they had requested outside help as well? Truly, she had done little to deserve such outright insult.

 

[Myrryn]

Hooves muffled by moss and wet leaves sounded first, slow and unhurried, as though the rider felt no need to announce herself loudly into this place of rot and silence. The mare was black as spilled ink, making the pale rider upon her seem a ghost made flesh, drifting through the fog like winter given shape.

She dismounted with the careful grace of one who navigated the world by sound and subtle shift, her bare feet touching the cold, damp earth. A soft white cloth veiled here eyes, strands of pale hair falling like snow over shoulders, tattooed in dark runes. Despite her obvious deficiency, the sway of her head and tilt of her shoulders betrayed no uncertainty, and she walked the world as if it spoke to her in whispers only she could hear.

Hair like bleached silk fell in loose braids over her shoulder, nearly blending into the fine white doeskin cloak about her form. Finely inked runes marked the visible skin of her throat and hands; sigils of healing, life, frost, and something older that the Falwood itself may have forgotten.

"I was summoned to the service to House Theralyn.." the witch chimed too softly as the door was opened to her, and she was welcomed in, bringing the cold inside with her.

Her head did not turn toward Fëanáro as she drifted inside. Her eyes remained closed beneath her blindfold, and yet somehow, she seemed perceptive beyond sight. She paused, tilting her head, her senses reached outward, brushing the manor’s aura like fingers across the surface of water. And then she felt the other in the room..

A pulse of life like sunlight striking stone, rigid and disciplined, almost painfully bright. Warmth tempered by steel, a fire restrained behind walls of self control. Myrryn felt the tension in the knight’s energy, coiled and dangerous. Every movement, every exhalation, radiated momentum, purpose, and authority. Even standing still, this one carried the weight of storms held in check.

The contrast was startling, their fire against Myrryn’s own frost. She sensed the tension, magnetic and sharp, a silent conversation before a word was spoken. She felt the potential for destruction, yes, but also the capacity for protection.

“Myrryn Seraphel,” she said softly, her voice a whisper yet sharp as ice. “Servant of the old runes." she said with the thick accent of a language long since dead.

“This place is unwell,” she murmured observationally beneath her breath. Her head finally turned to Fëanáro, though she saw nothing and everything at once. “And it will grow worse before it grows better.”

 

[Fëanáro Elrohir]

The she-elf felt the arcane cold long before the door opened, a creeping chill that was as uncomfortable as it was unknown. It made her skin crawl and her bones shudder slightly. Fëanáro watched the arrival of the Witch with the subtlest tip of her head, hair falling from behind a pointed ear, curiosity in her gaze, and lips tightened in a subtle discerning, passing judgment.

She had to agree with the Witch, from the moment Fëanáro had arrived, something felt off, different, a distinct malaise in the air that she was sure would indeed get worse before it grew better.

Ser Edrion returned with a dishevelled-looking servant boy holding two mugs of warm mead, and each was offered to the guests, though Fëanáro made a point to discard the drink to one side. Surely this was a move to insult her further, pig-swill best served in a tavern by a boy who looked like he had not long finished cleaning the cellar.

“If you would be so kind as to tell both of us what task requires a Knight-Templar and a Witch, Ser, lest we decide both our times have been wasted.” She spoke for Myrryn, because she was sure the other she-elf likely felt the same.

“The Undead.” Spoke a voice from atop the grand stairway, cutting off any further discussion, an elven woman of old blood, dripping with elegance in her movements, tall and imposing, with high cheekbones and higher ears, all sharp angles creating a gaunt but not unhealthy appearance. “Your perceptive ability has not been exaggerated, Lady Seraphel.”

Fëanáro bristled, tensed even at the mention of the undead, the unnatural, abominations. The reason she existed was to extinguish evil from the world. Her interest had been piqued.

“And Knight-Sergeant Elrohir, Lady Sothrilsil speaks highly of you,” She smiled, as a snake might smile before striking its prey, “A Swordsister would not be the instrument I needed, sharp and straightforward.” Fëanáro narrowed her eyes, “A Mehtayar Knight-Templar, I am sure, has the professionalism to keep her task furtive from the courts and her burning passion hot enough to purge what must be purged.”

A far meeker man joined Lady Theralyn; his features told of someone riddled with worry and a lack of sleep, the Lord Vaelor Theralyn, Fëanáro assumed.

“Something troubling is happening in the western wood, for months now, trees that once bore fruit are no longer flowering, animals hunted are no longer able to sustain us, their hides rot before they can be sold, the ground itself feels unwell,” Lady Theralyn explained, before being interrupted.

“Things move that should no longer move, I-I can no longer sleep, I can hear them…” Lord Theralyn blurted as he descended the steps. He looked more ragged up close than he had atop the stairs.

“Yes, and that is why Lady Myrryn will help; something far older, deeper than simple magic is affecting the wood, cursing the ground barren. If what I have heard is true, her knowledge will be invaluable.” Lady Theralyn added.

Fëanáro regarded the Witch Myrryn again. She was an elf at the very least, and the arcane drifted from her like a creeping chill, her ethereal softness no doubt a well-maintained visage; no one survived long being so waif-like without having teeth to bear. There was little doubt in the mind of her usefulness; it was just a bitter nut to swallow to know she herself had not been seen as enough.
_____

Myrryn​