Private Tales Withering at Withereach

[Neremyn Virvyre]

This trip had not gone exactly as he had planned…

The voyage to the Northern Aberresai was fraught with rocking and the turbulence of a typically slow moving Cairou River. Based on the confluence of tributaries North of Elbion, the Druid expected that murky and turbid waters lay downstream. But heavy rains, resulting from the adiabatic cooling of ocean spray, had caused quite the nebulous ruckus and the skies were content to punish the man for it. Silt and sand, chop and winds, all pushed him out into the Gulf of Liad like a bowel movement a week in the making. He supposed it was fortunate, that sort of momentum flung him directly in the path of one of the known Portal Stones.

The Elf, dressed in thick furs of black and brown and armors composed of refashioned wood, entered the burnt grass, outlined in a broad circle, with intent for Belgrath. But at the last moment, one of the locals informed him that such a place had known the recent touch of siege. And whether out of haptic indecision or simply the want for a little adventure, his weather-beaten hand hovered over the one Portal Stone rune he had not visited.

The connectivity between the enhanced stones was reflected in a gateway, marred in darkness and the sounds of a conch shell held to one ear. Ere had often recounted the voices of his ancestors within the cavernous walls as he was propelled forward, speaking of the wild worlds and the ways of the old Gods. Even once, he heard remarks upon the creation of a particularly delicate pie made from bristle berries with a pastry that was both light and airy.

That pie recipe haunted him, forever unable to recall the specifics.

Belched out from a circle of charred lava rocks, pinned eyes of emerald greeted the coast of Sheketh with an abrupt sense of regret. There were golden shores and blackened mountains, pinching into large craters that were actively ejecting molten magma. The glow of red and orange dogged every horizon as he made his way North, unsure of where he was going. Until there was nothing left but the ocean, once more, and the threat of snow from the North.

“I’ve never seen snow…” He commented as he perched atop driftwood, thumb pressed into the bottom of his lip and leaving a clear indentation. It took the chop and surge of several days before he found enough wood to construct a proper boat. And just when all preparations were made, he found an actual seaworthy boat, strung to an abandoned pier that led to a lava field. Looking around, he noted that from the field, he could make out the small structures of former villages standing out from the smooth obsidian. A group of people once lived there, but no more.

Gathering all of his supplies, which amounted to very little, he made his way aimlessly with the guidance of druid magics and tidal assistance. By the time he reached Withereach, he was bucketing out water by the hand and plugging an unfortunate hole with his index finger. Seaworthy was, evidently, a loosely defined term for the man who preferred land over water. Stepping onto the muddy shores of Eretevja, he grimaced as he hugged himself and the furs, looking out as the boat bubbled and turned over, capsizing.

“Hmm...such a poignant existence.” He muttered as the cold winds of the Southern Coast responded with a gleeful laugh. He turned his back to it, looking towards what appeared to be a miners town. The smell of smoke and salt filled the air as he surveyed those moving about, going on as if his arrival meant nothing.

He was pretty sure they were right.

Emeria

 

[Emeria]

There had been a ship set up to take her to the Summer Lands, currently being stocked up with goods that the captain was planning to sell when he arrived. It was slow to be stocked, however, giving Emeria the annoying task of amusing herself for another few hours before she got to leave. As well as dishing out orders to the Kingsguard, most of which were to remain in Nordengaard, especially with the troubles rumoured to be happening in Sittekar, she was left to stroll the town.

Having already drained everything she could from it, she decided against asking more people and instead took a path near the water, so she could remind herself that she could be leaving right now.

A man stepped out from the mud, a capsized collection of wood that could be hardly called a boat behind him, and watched the town. He didn't smell Norden. He didn't look Norden either. Emeria took another glance at the people going about their days in the town, who were barely paying attention to him before turning back towards the man. Had they not seen him? Was this just a common occurrence in Withereach, so they didn't pay any more attention to him?

Whatever it was, Emeria wasn't from these parts. And the fact that a strange man had just washed up on shore wasn't a good thing. For one, the borders were closed. Even if you didn't count any of the strange things.

Pulling her furs over her a little more, she took quick steps towards him. They turned into a bouncy run, and she forced her face to light up with friendliness. "Hey!" she called out, before shushing herself and repeating it, a little quieter this time. "You can't be here! If the Jorn finds out... no one is allowed in Nordengaard, I don't know what he'll do!" Emeria played herself as someone who seemed genuinely concerned, but for this stranger's wellbeing. She figured it was a good way to gain his trust. And with that, maybe she could learn some more. "Are you okay? Why did you come here?"

 

[Neremyn Virvyre]

"Oh...Gods." He muttered to himself with nostrils flared, verdant gaze moving towards the woman who was approaching. Even from afar, her heritage was clear. Accent, markings, smell. Admittedly he had met many Nordenfir in his long life and this one hardly measured on the odor scale, but in the moisture of the coast - it sang of deep sapric earth and recently overturned topsoil. He did his utmost to mask his displeasure as he looked around, noting her abundant coverage of fur.

"Nordengaard, you say?" He scratched at his beard with an over empathized enthusiasm as he shifted and turned from her. Forming a visor over his brow, he looked up towards the cloudy sky and shook his head. "A quarrelsome cloud misguided me. Quarrelsome indeed." This was clearly not the place he intended when he began his journey back at the College of Elbion. But then again, when plans run paper thin, just about any thing can threaten the integrity.

Dropping his hands to his mouth, he breathed out to the sight of his own breath, and enclosed them into fists several times. Then he turned back to the young red-headed woman.

"I must confess..." He ringed his hands as he approached. "I don't know what I have done to displease this Jorn. I hardly know him, I am confident I could amend my status-" He stopped and looked up, gaze shifting to the mountains in the distance. So close to water, the snow crowns and drifts stood as strong temptress. "Is that snow, up there?" Maybe he had seen the white precipitate before and simply forgot. It seemed an insubstantial thing now that he had the opportunity to consider it.

It didn't help that he was not a great fan of the cold.

 

[Emeria]

The man turned away and she cursed him, because she couldn't see his face any more. There was not a chance of her recognising this man again, not like this. Or judging what he was thinking. Which meant that her attempt could run through like ink through parchment but she wouldn't eve be able to see it seep through the other side. Emeria took a few steps closer, reaching out a hand innocently, ready to jump to the other side of him and correct her problem. But something in her stopped her, and it was probably good.

"A quarrelsome cloud misguided you? I don't think I..." she kept her voice light as she asked, pinned another smile to her lips. And he turned just in time for her to take a step back, not quite having touched him but almost there. She tried to look flustered, pulling her arm back sharply and glancing to the side like an embarrassed school girl. Her cheeks grew warmer and she thanked them for playing along.

When he approached, she threw another subtle smile at the ground and looked back up, beginning to wring her hands to mirror him. As he spoke, she followed his gaze, noting how he looked away and up to the mountains.

"Yes, it's snow. It's always snowy, up there. And down here, very often, too. Very cold - those who aren't Nordenfiir complain too much," Emeria chuckled a little, taking a step towards him. She had stopped wringing her hands and instead let them hang awkwardly at her side, as if she wanted to reach out but was just about stopping herself. "And the Jorn - you've done nothing. I promise you've done nothing. It's the King. He's ordered that no one can enter Nordengaard without his letting them. There are terrible times here. I don't think - I don't think there is much you can do to convince him...."

And a plan formed in her mind, a beautiful plan. Her eyes lit up excitedly and she let it glow. "I think - I think I know how. The King needs to find a certain Nordenfiir woman. Gemaudelene. If you could - if you helped me find her, if you had any information to help him - perhaps he would allow a visitor. I could talk to him, convince him that you've proved that you're a friend..." At this, she had to reach out, trying to brush his arm lightly. She made eye contact as best as she could. "Then I promise you I'll give you a personal tour of Nordengaard. The cities, the mountains, everything you want to see. Anything you could want to see."

She pulled herself a little closer.

 

[Neremyn Virvyre]

There was a good deal of things going on in these passing moments, things that perplexed the old Lythari. First and foremost, this woman was interacting with him in an odd and unexpected way. The sort of way that made him think they knew each other or had met once, perhaps she was a former student of his at the College of Elbion. The realization of this possibility was embarrassing for the man as he simply couldn't recall her and it wasn't his desire to lay insult at the foundation of their reunion.

He decided it was best to play along.

But then she spoke further of this King and this Nordenfir woman, Gemaudelene. Gem...odd...alean. He didn't know Jorn and he didn't know of this women with whom this red head searched. But, if the prevailing theory of this Nordenfir being a former student was accurate, then perhaps she recalled Ere's specific arcane and Druidic abilities. It all was starting to make sense and even if it didn't, it would make for an entertaining series of interactions.

"Of course of course, I want nothing more than to make the King happy..." He said as he patted himself on the chest, bowing his head as the nobles would. Then he moved his hand to hers, tenderly pushing her brushing fingers from his forearm. "Sorry, you don't know where I've been..." He trailed off as he rubbed his hands together and blew warm air into them. "Gemaudelene sounds like a strong name..." He stated assuredly as he began walking towards the first building he could see.

"Don't skimp on the details. Time is of the essence, I cannot be long from the mountains and that tree line..." He spoke with some certainty, knowing that while the natural world lived through everything, it was fleeting in this miners town. Shifting his gaze back to the woman as he walked towards what he assumed was a tavern or establishment of measured repute, he gestured for her to come along. "I can hardly help you if I can't feel my toes."

 

[Vand]

“No.”

It was odd, because Vand wasn’t yelling. He didn’t seem to be, anyway – The qualities were not present in pitch, nor timbre. “Not one fucking chance.” Yet still, its command cut through the frozen tundra to reach its audience; its own electricity conducting from atom to atom in the subzero air.

The man was coming down the hill from what appeared to be the settlement proper, deviating from the lightly marked path in favor of the quickest distance between him and the alien. For as cold as the Elf was, this man’s clothing was scant – the only additional affects not for added warmth, but instead, menace. Tattoos, a half-mask of bone, bear claws affixed to knuckles of gauntlets – he wreaked of it; looking every bit like a Reaver ready to harvest your X-Genes, or a Road Warrior fixing to jack your outback buggy. It would be difficult to imagine him intending anything but ill-will.

And this was before he drew the obsidian sword from his back, the tip, broken, scraggled, and razor-sharp. He clutched it tightly in his right hand, hanging at his side with implied threat.

“Third one of you this season…vomited up by the Rotting Tide...uglier every time.,” he was closing in now, pointing with his free-hand for effect; the snow being pact with each footfall exponentially audible with continued approach. His pointing ended, coughing grotesquely in his fist. He cast his arm out to the side, slinging a glob of blackened mucus into the powder.

It would, perhaps, begin to dawn on the newcomer that he was facing the end of the central pier -- that they were, in fact, standing on a frozen body of water hidden beneath snow and dirt.

It was crass; an ignorant, belligerent undermining of Emeria’s more surgical and deliberate investigation. But ever since her liberal sprinkling of Kingsguard upon his quiet, insane little mountain town, his patience for her had waned. Not to mention, there was something off about her. His head craned, eyes fixated on Emeria as he passed, only returning to Neremyn as it became no longer comfortable for his neck. He bared his teeth, suddenly aware that they were comparable in size. He had counted on the Druid to be as fragile as the elves past.

“You,” he said, halting, shifting his posture to point his sword at the man’s chest. He maintained a good distance so as to move and adapt should the outlander get froggy; he was not an amateur, after all. “Dirty, shaking, knife-eared FUCK!,” he barked, yelling now; an enthusiastic christening of Neremyn’s new name.

“WHY THE FUCK ARE YOU HERE?!”

 

[Neremyn Virvyre]

Ere clung to the jarring notion of persuasive stratagem, diversely portrayed by these separate entities hailing from presumably the same region. On one hand, there was this woman who spoke cunningly with a convincingly lofty opinion of her own allure. The other spoke at odds, as if vulgarity and clamor were as potent a bulwark as he was capable of manifesting. During the descent, Ere had felt his hand tightening against the leather grip of his staff; an object that seemed more related to driftwood than the fine harvest of timber that more accurately described its origin.

He did feel at his ears with the comment regarding their bite; knife-ear was something he found more commonplace in the cesspool riddled underbelly of Elbion or in the open thoroughfares of Alliria, where the grease ran thick and congealed for the entertainment of cretins and children. Hardly something he expected from the people of the North, as different from humans as he was. In some ways, the Lythari and Nordenfiir were kindred spirits; both races were as much beast as men.

"I..." Anger resonated from the bone-faced instigator. If his intent was to intimidate the elf, the effort had marginal effect. Ere shook, but he stilled himself as he cast away the cold of the tundra in light of the sudden seriousness of his circumstances. His grip loosened on the staff as he clumsily side stepped the point of the coarsely serrated blade, using the rod to hold up his salt-laden weight.

"Good question." His finger lifted from his verdant robes, held towards the sky to emphasize the point of his previous statement. Ere got the distinct impression that this man, or maybe beast, had not the inclination for vexing comments or words of perplexing nature. He'd struggle with that; uncertainty was the druids greatest strength.

"I got in a boat..." He gestured out towards the ocean, hand turning over and waving. As if he were scooting a mouse across the dinner table. "Volcanic winds pushed me along. And that cloud..." He pointed his finger towards the grey sky. "Gave me my bearing. The rest..." He moved to gripping his staff with both hands. "Is history...as they say." A giggle split from his lips he hunkered against the staff.

"I'm not one for laying blame...but..." He leaned forward, tilted expression resembling the energy of a gossiper by the water pool. "I think Pneria has it out for me."

 

[Vand]

This again.

Another elf; Lost, frozen, barely alive. And yet, despite it all, confident that their prowess, or their god, or their casual indifference would carry them through to their salvation; but no, never a little humility.

Vand understood that these elves were often quite old, but more and more, he found himself wondering how it is they got to be.

More and more, he wondered why he wore any of this scary shit at all.

Vand took a step forward and Sparta-kicked Neremyn in the sternum, launching the elf back into the icy waters from which he had so narrowly escaped.

Glancing back at Emeria, he dismissed her, taking it upon himself (as per his right as Jorn) to dispose of the trespasser however he saw fit. “I have it from here, Frozen Halls.”

He was a cuckoo clock; repeating the same series of superficial actions as precision gears turned.

So again, here, we see that the archetype presents itself to the audience as an antidote to the modern world; a free man who acts in honest pursuit of his own will – for he holds no shyness nor shame in what he is, and will take absolute responsibility for the consequences of his being. This is what the Noble Savage feels he has over the world, and the audience is to feel he has, as well. But this is a lie.​

Meet newcomer. Be rude. Hurt him.

He is a slave to his habits as much as anyone.​

That familiar crash of static rang in his head, his body buckling as he violently coughed again. Had Emeria not left, he would bark, “I said ‘Fuck off.’” Closing the distance between he and the elf to guard the ledge of the icy floor where Era might climb up. He was not done with him yet.

He had tapped into his anger, that old safety. This rage, this passion for glorious battle – It had lead so many other Nordenfiir to their Svalen. It was certainly his path, as well, Vand wagered.

And his “honesty” proves to be little more than Rationalization.​

It was, after all, his “truest self.”

Is it? Are you sure?​

The striations is Vand’s arm muscles had darkened, like something black was running through it. Ink pooled at the corner of his right eye. He looked down at the elf treading water, a slight frown on his lips.

“You laugh – You must think you’re among friends,” the barbarian stated, his voice much lower so only the druid could hear as the King’s Detectioner returned to Withereach.

Oddly, considering his prior demeanor, this was not threatening. It was paternal, cautionary – Like a father explaining why a spanking was a necessary. Vand reaffixed the Black Bastard to his back.

“Are you trying to impress girls?” He likely sounded unusual for what Era was used to in Nordenfiir. His accent more Baltic. “You are not fit for a fight, Elf. What if you had said the wrong thing, yes? What if you had peaked the detectioner’s interest, yes? We’ll see then where your fucking smugness gets you -- Could you have stopped what happened next?”

Vand squatted on his tip toes, his arms resting on his knees. Should Neremyn start to sink, he’d snatch him back up by his shirt collar.

“Smug, frozen, and dead – So far from home,” Vand mused in conclusion. He paused for a moment, his eyes scrutinizing the water. “...I see no boat, elf.”

Perhaps they were all too stupid to survive; too spoiled by the ease by which they got by in weaker lands of eternal Springs and Summers. Where everything can be defeated with laughter, team work, and a high five.

Those were not these lands. Out here, the natural disposition of things was Extinction. Even the bacteria froze to death.

Vand would teach them.

“I know not of Pneria, but Yogroth has nathing for you. It's me you're going to have to deal with.”

He reached down, trying to grip both sides of Neremyn’s collar. “Come the fuck on -- Before the spriggan take you.” Should he be allowed purchase, his biceps would tighten as he curled the Elf out of the water, assisting the man’s own efforts.

He was not protecting the elf. He was not protecting Gemauldene, either.

Vand cared for his freedom, and for hisself. And more and more, his Self had begun to include Withereach and all the weirdos that wandered within.

He knew he lacked his Svalen; he knew the witches, that outsiders were outlawed within Nordengaard; and he knew the crown cared little before when Withereach was being worked to death, so long as the capital got its iron.

While Vand had no love for Iordahn, New King Borvenir’s stance on Withereach was a big fat question mark, and right now, he had not yet decided on his play.

Best to keep his options open.

 

[Neremyn Virvyre]

He had a wealth of opportunity to impede on the conversation but somewhere between the kick and hitting the water, he had decided silence and the elegance of a stirred up flounder would do.

Though he did have to laugh at the impressing girls comment. Well, he would have if he wasn't swallowing the entire sea for the fact that his robes weighed quite a bit when wet, treated wood armor didn't float, and his staff was absolutely useless when the master needed it most.

Everything was going just according to plan.

So not at all.

"Pneria..." He gasped as he came up from the water, strong hands grasping at his collar. "It's...one of the moons." He laughed, beard collecting what he imagined was a mesmerizing and hypnotic combination of salt and ice crystals. "Read a book...they...they have those here...ri-?"

Everything got warm and peaceful and dark, like he was sitting by a crackling fire with slumber gently rocking. Or perhaps it was similar to bathing in fire; the line between heat and numbness was ever tenuous. Whatever it was, he never felt quite a sleepy as he did then.

 

[Vand]

Vand inspected the elf, holding him aloft now over the ice. The stranger’s pupils seemed to shift in and out of focus like he were phasing between worlds, babbling about moons and their names and the books you could find them in.

Vand released him, only to find Neremyn lacked the strength to hold himself, folding back down onto the ice as though his bones were made of gelatin.

The Moon had a name already, Vand thought. It was “The Moon.”

The last thing the Druid would see was the barbarian bringing his hand to his mouth, thumb out, forefinger and pinky spreading his lips just so, and turning to the camp. The last thing he would hear is a high-pitched whistle, as if the marauder were calling for a dog.

Later that hour, as night had fallen.​

“ – catch fire. It has sentimental value.”

Far be it from me to tell you how your Druid functions. Don’t let me tell you what powers he has.

But, perhaps, he has some “Forest Sense;” perhaps he could just sorta “tell” his body was not resting upon the sea, nor the soil. Perhaps he knew immediately that, where-ever he was, he was in the air – maybe he could “hear” the tree by which the structure was held.

What Neremyn would recognize with absolute certainty, is that he was not only dry, but warm. He would also note there was no fire or hearth; this would be made especially clear upon opening his eyes.

Vand stood, slightly canted toward the slouching Druid, but it was not to whom he spoke. There was someone else in the room. Another elf. Their skin like midnight, familiar as the Drow on the mainland, but the face, the clothes – depending on his familiarity with the region – ranged from merely foreign to outright alien. The other, shorter than both he and Vand.

“Know anything?,” Vand said, gesturing at the stirring Druid.

Maybe Neremyn would recognize Sannoru was a woman immediately. Vand, initially, had mistaken her for a tweenage boy.

They were in a treehouse. That much might be obvious. Directly infront of Neremyn was a bench; if he was a carpenter himself, he might recognize the craftsmanship to be poor – a first effort by an amateur. He might recognize the coffee table in front of it to be somewhat better.

If he were a beastmaster, or a resident of Withereach, the elf might recognize the creatures adorning the walls; if he was a parent, or a babysitter, or a child at any point in his life, he might recognize that there were drawn by kids of varying ages, colored with crayon and chalk. If he was a game hunter, he might recognize that the numbers beneath them were the points they worth. He might glean the information, too, by simply reading the word “points.”

If he were shrewd, he might understand that the words in black crayon were their names, how to kill them.

And if Neremyn had been to Withereach in the last 16 years, he might even remember the children who made them, who made all of this. He might have met the colony’s “Lost Generation,” and if he had, he might even know exactly where it is he was.

He might have recognized in an instant that the place in which he now sat had been treehouse fort of what was once the Dead Bears Club.

 

[Sannoru]

There were no dogs in Withereach area, and with good reason too. The poor things commonly owned by humans to ward off wildlife obviously would not be fond of nordenfiir one bit.
With the sharp whistle cutting through the air, it called for a wolf painted in oxen blood. For it, now a routine call whenever something a bit more specific had to be done.
- - - - - - -

The elf was ambiguous in sound, facade and mannerism, but scarcely did it matter. Their black eyes with fixated on the pale one.

»Looks like some kinda hermit from the setting lands...«
»'Falwood' I think, 'all elves are from Falwood'...« Sannoru then murmured in prejudice as they stood up and backed off from the Druid with the bloodied brush, wiping it off against their own sleeve. Finally they finished with their little craft. Sannoru didn't like this particular style though, blood on skin, two very raw materials...primitive, limited, basal.

Neremyn would likely soon realize what was keeping him warm this long. If looking down at the left wrist, a wound composed of tiny bloody, yet delicate cuts could be seen.
Sanno had spent the past...'eternity' writing a relatively intricate text in two columns over the Druid from one arm to the other with the druid's own blood. At the wound, where the text began, it was already faded, the path of erasion slowly, yet visibly following through towards the other end. The expiring magic keeping the elf warm, and the effect would last until it was wholly gone.

 

[Neremyn Virvyre]

The first indication of his awakening came with the flaring of his nostrils, a causal response linked to the ever persistence smell of sheared wood. The lower moisture content of the brutal tundra left little remnants of the scent on the air, tying his response more loosely to his traits and practiced abilities. The verdant gaze first took in the view through slit eyelids, surveying the room around him.

The angry one was here as was someone else, someone distinctly non-Nordenfiir. There were precious few things that truly surprised the man, beyond Leshy's in the woods and the presence of inappropriately placed mythical creatures; this midnight skinned female hadn't yet qualified as either. Blinking and stretching out his jaw, he flexed the fingers of his left hand and dutifully inspected the dirty beds of his crudely chewed nails.

But there was more of the room that beckoned interest. They were off the ground, he could feel the tethers of the soil loosely surrounding them. There were various pieces of furniture around him, all of varying levels of quality, and animal portraits hung throughout the room. It felt like a child's room, one not entirely different from what was held in Fal'Addas, though something felt 'off' about the tone.

Points...

"I am a teacher..." He spoke in common tongue, breaking the silence and complicating the matters of what he could and couldn't understand. Taking in a deep breath, his chin rested against his chest as he felt the world around him. "I would have told you as much, had you asked." He felt no need to lie, which was often the case.

Casting glances towards the ceiling and around him, though never truly moving his head, Ere curled his bottom lip inward and began to chew on the long strands of his unkempt soul patch. "Is it safe to assume that I am not free to go?"

He wouldn't yet address the magic that now warmed him, or the practitioner and the violation of its implementation. He was a druid, fire was his nature. He needed warmth from otherworldly means about as much as a trout needed a hook through the gills.

 

[Vand]

“Falwood…,” Vand echoed, almost in a whisper. It was private, to himself, letting it roll over his tongue, getting a taste of it. He had only the most nebulous idea as to what it was, what it could be.

“I am a teacher,” the Druid assisted, announcing to the world that he was awake. “I would have told you as much, had you asked.”

Awake with that that fucking sass mouth.

Vand shifted in his posture, his arms crossing over his chest. Body language would have answered Era’s question before it had even left his throat.

Pursing his lips like a pensive chimp, Vand’s facial expressions performed for the audience. “Go?” He shrugged to one side, his guard falling open briefly to bounce the question off the wall like Baloo passing Mowgli a coconut or a papaya or whatever. “Depends on where you want to go.”

He raised his eyebrows, his other hand now lifted, hands open as though it wielded Promethean fire. “Withereach? Not a good idea, as you saw, yes?”

His other hand open now, a bonfire of information. The bear claws affixed to his gauntlet wicked with the promise of violence.

“Faarin? Colburn? Hjeri--?” The “m” consonance in "Hjerim" was lost, choked under a light cough caused by a tickle in the throat. He regrouped, residual tremors in the first syllable, despite his effort to emphasize around it, “Nordengaard? All same.”

His arms returned to their guard, once more crossed over his chest. His eyebrows lowered with them, peering at the Druid in scrutiny. “What do you teach, elf?”