Hollowed Bones and Hallowed Blood

((Closed to Visla Eraclaire and Lisean))

"We have to come at it from the north, sir. See here?"

The elf, who looked so terribly young even for one of these people of perpetual youth, tapped furiously at the map. It had been unfurled partially, rocks from nearby propped on the edges, the youth's grubby hand keeping it from rolling back on itself.

Findelfin nodded, "I see what you mean, Linan. But why can't we take the southeastern route?"

He pointed to the map with the tip of his dagger, tracing an imaginary line from their current position northwards, then sinuously following the course of a meandering southern stream into the heart of their target. "We could use the stream to disguise our scent from the tracking beasts in the forest, and we'd be able to be in and out by nightfall, rather then forcing camp once on the way in and once on our way back."

Linan shook his head ferociously, "No, General, I'm sorry. Speed won't work in this case, that route puts us directly in the path of the patrols of the Corrupted Elves. You know we can't face them with so few!"

Findelfin nodded his approval. He had, of course, known of their corrupted brethren. But Linan was so terribly young; every moment they could spare for strategic and tactical discussion would teach the young elf how to survive in such horrifying times.

"Good, Linan. Let's move, then, a long day awaits us."

Picking up the map and stowing it in his pack, Linan allowed himself a smile, "Whatever you say, General. You're the commander."

Findelfin merely shouldered his own pack, slipped his dagger back into his belt, and set off, a few gestures indicating to his team that they were to follow quietly, swiftly, and far enough apart that they could cover more ground with watchful eyes. There was also the fact that the more spread out they were, the easier at least some of them could get away in the event of an ill-fated engagement. But no one wanted to think about that.

Findelfin moved underneath the trees quickly, effectively, but his mind was nowhere near as focused. He fingered his rosary silently, thoughtfully. He had still not gotten over his strange experiences of late...other worlds, other minds, holy books which spoke to his heart, phrases which still sprung unbidden to his mind as if imposed upon it by another force. How can we sing the songs of Zion in a strange land?

Suddenly, he heard a snap ahead of him, like a foot on a twig. With a swift whistle, made to sound like the mating call of a flute-mouthed warbler, he signaled his team. And with another quick mental blast, born of years of experience in Turlin telepathy, he had given them their instructions: bows out, surround, and pounce.

In a few seconds his bow was up, an arrow was on the string, and he was stepping into a clearing with his arrows trained on another being, four elves each emerging from a different direction to do the same. Had the being been undead, it would have already died its second death. But it was a man, so Findelfin was willing to give him one chance.

"Why are you here, stranger, in the forest where the quick and the dead do battle?"

Among any adventurer, there comes a time when you feel tension in your bones, and a particular tug at your heart that yearns for you to do something about it. It’s that same old feeling you get when you know that something life changing is bound to happen, or you hope it happens in the very least. You smile to yourself and think about the past, and how it’s brought you to this point, awakening your senses in ways you could scarcely imagine.

And that time comes when you realize you’re lost.

Damnit.

The forests weren’t kind to our young friend as he treaded up and down various hills of mud and old wood, climbed over the great colossi which had fallen over decades of age, and meandered around the borders of various small lakes and rivers as they came into his sight. He never even stopped to think about looking for a map. No. Let intuition guide you, prodigal bastard! Let your instincts keep you well in your travels! The bickering was only mental, and rose up the more obstacles that got in his way. He should’ve known better than to let something like it confuse him, but the word of undead in the region had sparked a good nerve in him enough that he just shrugged off his sense of direction. It was about time he found a source which he could study!

The man moved as a below average pace as the sights and sounds began to pester him. His salmon hues stared out from behind the iron sheet on his face to embrace his surroundings as best he could. He had worn the garb over his head for several months, and through its use he has found himself no longer feeling like his vision had been cut off. Why, it helped him see further, despite the vulnerable points at either side of his head with that hood draped over him. There was always rustling. Always something moving around him, but for the most part he answered with but a turn of his head… until he began to realize that half the sounds made were just him carelessly snapping old twigs.

That’s when a whistle had sounded, and brought the man to an sudden halt. A warbler? Here? His eyes glanced left and right, and his head had just begun to tilt up to find the source of the sound when the bushes rustled with an unknown presence for the last time. Bowstrings creaked as arrows were nocked and pointed at him. The visage of a man stood still, surrounded and still seemingly without an act of defense. The two people in his vision alone initially had helped him surrender from being outnumbered, and ill-equipped to deal in physical combat.

Nature resounded around the group while Lisean remained silent, his posture simple and casual. His arms slowly rose, appearing from underneath the dark-coloured cloak. Glove-fit bracers of similar gold material to that of his mask held a weight on his hands that made his digits shake while they parted and held spread, until he was comfortable and at ease. The silence was.. hair-raising. The mysterious figure without a face could leave his imprint on the soldiers. His purpose, unknown. His intents, unknown. The weak-willed would become nervous, at this point.

A voice spoke to him and the sounds of leaving being crushed beneath footwear helped Lisean’s trained ears to detect the male as he circled him, and came right to his front with bow armed. Five, the man estimated. He didn’t answer the question at first, only stared. A blank face greeted the troupe. Lisean’s head very slowly tilted off to the left, playing with the tension think in the air, and on the back of his neck. The position he was in was quite.. enlightening. Tilted at a full ninety degrees, a small crack sounded from within his garb, and a heavy breath exhaled. Soft, and delicate. The man must’ve had no brute in his blood at all.

“Why do you ask questions that you already have the answers to?” a witty remark was thrown, with a lack of enthusiasm in his tone. His head rounded back up straight before adding on. “I’m here for just that, sir. The quick… but moreso the dead. I wish to take from the remains of your enemy, and fight on the.. lively side in exchange for an opportunity to research my calling.”

An extended moment of silence filled the air, before that soft voice spoke a little above a whisper.

“…and would you care to lower your weapon? The sun’s light coming off of the head of your arrow is blinding me.”

The forest was a dreadfully foolish place to be. Ghost white skin with a sickly pallor and figure growing more gaunt by the day, she was barely distinct from that which she hunted. Combined with her shambling gait and the trail of wilted plants that served as her only sustenance, it was a great wonder that Visla did not find herself set upon. That honor had already fallen to another.

The voices of two men drifted through the heavy boughs and gnarled thickets to the place where she had chosen to rest. To call it a choice was really too ennobling. The patch of dead earth nestled among the roots of a mighty tree was the spot where her will gave out. Her strength had surrendered long ago, but some trace of stubbornness propelled her body on borrowed energy up to the spot where she lay.

Intelligent voices stirred a hunger in her, another feature she held in common with the ravenous dead. It was that drive that had brought her here for some measure of atonement. She held no delusions that there was a divine judge or a set of cosmic scales to await her at the end of her life. Still, when faced with her own reflection, she hoped to see the face of a misunderstood young woman at the very least, and not a monster. If she was ever to look into Aelva’s eyes again, she hoped that her own would have some trace or gleam of the innocence they once held.

A romantic dream to be sure, but also a practical matter. The undead were laden with essence of their own, rich and heavy, lacking the sweetness of the living, but with an aged sharpness not unlike a fine wine. More importantly, a fervor to siphon the unlife from a hungry ghoul was a tolerable thing, understandable, even admirable to some. Visla hoped that the two men talking would find it so as she struggled to her feet.

The dry, cracked earth beneath her shifted audibly even under her slight weight. It may as well have been a clarion trumpet announcing her presence. Even without seeing them, even without hearing more than a few words, she felt sure these men were hunters. Sharp ears and careful eyes, they were just the things she lacked, as she peered through the foliage in hopes of spotting one or the other before she was mistaken for a quarry.

She had no such luck and could delay no longer. If clumsy wit was the manner in which one man would introduce himself, she felt it was good enough for her as well.

“Then turn toward me and take respite from the glare,” she called as loudly as her parched voice would allow and set herself in silhouette against a sphere of darkness. Respite is just what it would be if her assumptions about these men proved faulty.

Though her travels had done little to sharpen her insight into people, they had prepared her for the all too frequent occurrence of being completely and utterly wrong. Better to be wrong but ready than merely right. Accuracy could not be counted on, but she found paranoia a faithful companion.

Findelfin lowered his bow as the man seemed to indicate his friendship. Although it was plain that the other four had no such intentions, as their eyes and their arrows were still trained on him.

Shouldering his bow, Findelfin merely nodded, "I can't say as I approve of your profession, necromancer." He raised an eyebrow as if to indicate that he was certain his guess at the man's chosen career path was the correct one.

For a moment he thought to give the order to slay the man where he stood. But they couldn't burn the corpse, not here, they would be entering enemy territory soon enough and it would give away their arrival. And if Xem'zund's Death Lords found the body and raised it...well, a necromancer with even the smallest bit of training and raised soon enough after perishing could prove a dastardly foe indeed. And this necromancer seemed inexperienced enough. All the experienced ones were serving Xem'zund, that much was sure. So Findelfin made his decision.

"But we don't have the luxury of killing you, because then you'd just be one more corpse for the real Necromancer in these parts to raise against us. Of course, we could burn the body...but that would attract unneeded attention. And if you are an enemy, I'd rather you here for us to keep an eye on than away to report on our movements. And if you are a friend, releasing you right now would do no service to you...there are corrupted elves in various parts near here, and they would make mincemeat of you before you could even think of using them for your studies."

With a burst of concentration, Findelfin spoke directly to the man's mind. "Also, necromancer, you should ask me about the magic of Turlin. It can protect even a lichelord from the otherwise...corrosive...nature of such a road. If this is truly your career path, Turlin might prove the only path to maintaining your soul."

Findelfin was about to continue when a voice spoke...or rather, croaked...from the brush behind Linan. With a quick hand motion, Findelfin directed the two closest bowman to swivel on point to guard a new target, with the other two keeping their attention on the man in the glade.

Brushing past the necromancer to set eyes on the newcomer, Findelfin quickly decided whoever it was posed no threat. Indeed, the girl seemed on death's door, every line in her face spoke of malnutrition and undernourishment. Dropping to one knee and opening his pack, he snapped, "Bows off her, elves, but stay alert, there is more in this forest to worry about than her."

Pulling out his canteen of water and a bit of journeybread, he raised the canteen to the girl's lips. "Drink, friend. And when you are ready to eat, take this. Why are you so far from home, and in this state?"

Visla could not clearly see the two arrows knocked and readily pointed toward her, but her worry strung out every second into an anxious eternity. Her grip tightened around the cane in her right hand. Its smooth grip was still an unfamiliar sensation, and despite its sturdiness, it gave her none of the comfort that the brittle heirloom of her mother once had. She had left that one sitting next to her door in Radasanth when she ventured out on this sinner’s crusade.

The unease reached a point where her legs twitched, ready to slip into the umbral sphere behind her. Just as she had summoned the energy, perched and ready to fall away into the darkness, the figure behind the commanding male voice emerged from the foliage. The very picture of elfhood, a golden haired man of the woods, she saw in his eyes both careful, tactical calculation, and then a wave of sympathy.

As he drew near to her, she did nothing but trace him carefully with her eyes. Elven sympathy was never quite pure in her experience, mixed with pride, superiority, and a sense of duty. To him, she thought she must look like a mangy dog. If it kept his fellows' arrows at bay, that was just as well. If Visla cared for prestige she would never have abandoned her privileged noble station and ventured out into a world that saw her as helpless if it saw her at all.

The water was pressed to her lips just as her thoughts began to wander to grander matters, ideas of her purpose, her past choices. The cool liquid washed that all away and her vision focused sharply once again on her benefactor. Essence kept her alive, but little else. Water was just about the only thing she still ingested properly, though still less frequently than she should. As it flowed down her throat, she felt every bit of tissue in her body clawing at it and drawing it in. She was dry to her bones, even her eyes looked as if they could crack and blow away as a ruddy dust.

Once she had taken her sip of water and ignored her body’s pleas for more, she reached out and look the bread from the man’s hand. She hoped the helpless dog analogy did not go so far that he would attempt to feed it to her, but it was best to be safe. The idea of food in her stomach was so foreign now that it made her shudder. While her flesh cried out for water, every inch of her would expel food like an invader. Essence had been its only sustenance for over a year, so much that it had forgotten any other way. Her innards could tell no difference between a steak and a stone.

As such, the journeybread withered in her grasp, transformed into a vibrant stream of Essence that flowed into her. The elven foodstuff was richer than the dry scraps and stray plants that sustained her in most cases and its energy was almost as satisfying as that which came from living things. It did not have the seductive allure of sentient lifeforce, but it had a richness to it that stifled her arcane hunger for a time. Some of the color in her face even returned long enough that she could blush as she spoke.

“Thank you, lord Elf. I presume from your words with the other traveler that you are here with a purpose,” she spoke slowly and dismissed the darkness behind her, turning to pace, albeit a bit awkwardly. “While I am grateful for your aid, I am not so helpless as I may seem to one of your stature.”

Even as she gave deference to the vanity of the elder races, she felt a lingering need to reserve a bit of her pride. After all, she had made it this far on her own. It was no sign of greatness, but it was something.

“My name is Visla Layne, and I am far from home, not lost, but seeking. I do not seek glory or battle for its own sake, but I will lend myself to any noble cause, as I’m sure yours is. Though I may be little help, I would rather be that than none at all, or worse a burden. As I heard you say to the man yonder, this infested wood offers little luxury of choice. Still, I offer you the choice to take me along with you toward whatever purpose you are seeking, or to leave me be. I have endured much to come this far, and if I am to be turned away, that will be sufficient for me to know that I have done enough.”

It was as elegant a speech as she had ever given, for what little that was worth. For all its overtones and forthright intentions, it was a cryptic entreaty, even to Visla. It was impossible to explain to another why she was here when she scarcely understood herself. To say she wished to do good was too trite for a woman as complex as she. That’s what she told herself at least.