Round 3, The Final, will begin January 31th, 2022 at 10:00pm EST.
Round 2 will end February 16th, 2022 at 10pm EST
The only prompt is to write as well as you can to continue the story of the AC so far. Whoever wins will impact the future of Alerar, so please write as if an entire region depends on it.
Through the thunderous booming, the sharp shrieking and the dischordant howling of the storm, she quietly sang her song of loneliness and isolation to herself, that should have been a melody of celebration but in the midst of an ongoing war, desolation and many unknowns, she murmured it to herself and herself alone.
"It's your birthday today. You were born on this day. Another year to say - it's your birthday today."
Plucking the pale pink petals from the single flower that her drow friend and companion Vaminar had managed to scavenge for her from the miles of rock, mountain and bracken around them in the small fort, Celandine thought of how she would be celebrating, were it not for the demon incursion. It was her tenth birthday after all - not significant for some, but for a being who was maturing many times faster than a normal mortal it was something momentous. Her mother would have thrown a mighty ceremony for her back at the old fortress, with cake and candles and drinking into the long hours of the dark night. Instead the young faun and scholar was within this elven fortress that had been claimed as an outpost for the dwarves, within a small and simple box room.
Soon all the petals of the flower lay on the rough blanket before her. Due to a lack of wool or any other substitute in the past few days Celandine had not been able to knit herself anything more comfortable. Thus, she had been stuck with a dwarf made cover that proved scratchy although was warm. The bearded beings had spoken of their fluffy goats that they had left back home, but the ones they had brought into the fort were short haired and unsuitable for shearing.
With a sigh she swept the petals carelessly onto the floor, and cast aside the naked stem. Shaking her head she looked up out of the window to observe the cloudy deep grey sky of the night outside, with the pinpricks of light from the camps within the fort like a blanket that had stolen the stars. Pursing her lips she thought about the days that had passed since she had said goodbye to Umbra, and the weeks that she had been in Alerar. She thought about the drow, and how he seemed to be consciously growing closer to her even though romance had never been a consideration before for her. And she thought about the possibility of their mission working alongside the wise dwarf Garrett, who was a mistress of history and culture, who was deadly keen at their ability to make a replacement sword for the one that had been claimed from the seal within the well, that had been magically holding closed a portal to demons realms which were now open and the denizens running havoc in the whole land.
A bright flash of lightning and a rolling boom preceded a surge of wind that slammed against the window, shaking the glass in its wooden frame. Celandine jumped, gasping in surprise. She seemed to have caught the storm in an ebb when she looked out, for now it was wild and back in force - the fires below blustering wildly, flags and standards bending and a lone few objects rattling down the street where they would be missed. By morning she was sure many trees and lamps or so would be upset and more than one building damaged. Or perhaps there would be more - but now was not to worry. She herself at least was in a stable building with four steady walls and thus she ran to the window, and slammed the shutters closed on the world and refused to acknowledge it.
Because things had changed. Because times had changed. No longer was she a princess in a fortress - she had chosen to come here to Alerar as a diplomatic representative for the state of Corone, and the brutal onslaught of demons had led her to become a rogue, a rescuer, and a revolutionary.
Last edited by Celandine; 02-15-2022 at 03:19 AM.
When morning broke, the sunlight glinting hazily over the jagged horizon, it was clear the tempest had discharged every ounce of its righteous fury upon the unsuspecting fortress. At least three buildings had suffered considerable damage, and an entire avenue of lamps that led towards the main mess hall had been unsettled and upended, sending a rage of fire that had needed to be quickly dealt with amidst the savage wind and rain, else many of the basic supplies the dwarves had brought with them into the outpost would be lost. The largest tree also had lost a hefty major branch which now dominated a road and had killed outright two riding goats and a young guard. Chaos had descended, reigned supreme, bitten and caused injury and panic - yet despite that Celandine found the dwarves ever hardy and capable than most.
The young faun admired their tenacity and workmanship. There was something to be said for the dwarves' dedication to the mission, despite the fact they had laid claim to the dark elven outpost. Within just two hours of the early dawn they had organised the restoration of their camp, and at least set temporary measures in place. The buildings that had collapsed were, for now, impractical to try to mend, but the trees, lamps and smaller damages were promptly cleared. The young dwarf guard who had been killed was reverently attended to by the elders, and Celandine found herself caught up in the practice of learning dwarven funeral rights.
Gazing at the tomb, body now cleansed and laid in a shallow grave with stones piled high as an eternal memorial, the scholar was lost in the meaning of life. Of how it was fleeting, of how she, now only ten years old, would possibly be dead by a mere thirty or forty, compared to many others who could expect to live into their seventies, and some races hundreds of years. Was that the fate that awaited her? Indeed she had blossomed into full faun maturity at the age of eight and had seemed to stop altogether at that age. But then was not that the natural time to pause in one's development to some extent?
In all honesty, Celandine did not know. Biology was not a subject she had studied extensively.
Nibbling at her lip she hid her hands behind her, going silent and mimicked stance beside Mistress Garrett. They had been standing in reverence for some long moments now, but the elderly scholar was master of all ceremonies here, adviser and history-keeper for the army.
"Ahem, sorry," came a polite but light cough.
Looking over to the end of the pile of rocks and dirt, Celandine and Garrett were faced with the weary-looking but still determined dark elf Vanimar; his short crimson hair streaked with mud and his deep red eyes focused on the faun. Quickly, realising the situation before him, he descended into a bow. Celandine imagined that if Commander Raimneth of the Sanctuary - and currently de-facto leader of Alerar after he had declared martial law - had seen him he would be appalled.
"You're interruptin' a very sacred cere-mony," the heavily white haired and bearded dwarf grumbled, glaring at Vanimar with intelligent eyes.
"I apologise," Vanimar reverently, once more, bowed low, sweeping his tattered cloak to the side as he did. "However, I wondered if I might join you, Mistress. And Miss Celandine."
Join her. The nibbling went to chewing. Hitching in her breath the young faun tried to not let her emotions get away with her - whether it was sorrow for the young dwarf's death, distraught at another year of her life passing, or excitement at seeing the drow's face again. Deliberately bringing the thought of the ruined flower on the floor of her room to the forefront of her mind she pulled her eyes away from him and towards Mistress Garrett.
"Hmmm," the elderly scholar stroked her long beard. Hidden beads rattled together.
"Hmmm," she repeated, looking Vanimar up and down with all the clear signs of his assistance at reconstructing their camp despite the fact this was his country and it was the dwarves who were trespassing on Aleraran land.
"Hmmm," she voiced for a final time, and then grunted, lifting robes shoulders and then turning around. "Ah, we'ave perf'rmed all the rites any the way. There is really nae issue." She smiled grizzly and surprised both faun and drow by stomping away almost carelessly from the grave, as if the sacred ceremony had never been sacred in the first place.
"Come, both of yous. I wan' t'show you whit came las' night."
Celandine was surprised to not see an object or a gift from the heavens during the storm, but rather a small group of dwarves sitting in the middle of the main room of the building claimed for studies and research, huddled and covered in numerous blankets, with their long, lank hair looking as if freshly washed and clean simple clothes. They were devouring food, as if they had not eaten well in months, and a large cask of ale was available to them.
Mistress Garrett moved directly over to them, nodding to each of the dwarves briefly before she gestured Celandine over. "Come," she grunted.
But the faun was already approaching. With respect she nodded her head to the group and waited until Vanimar was standing beside her, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword out of sheer habit.
"Steadfast. Bolor. This be th' scholar who brough' us th' firs' samples."
Two of the dwarves, seeming to be leaders by the way they moved amongst their brethren, despite their weariness, looked directly over to the faun. One of them, a ginger fellow with azure eyes, gruffly nodded at her.
"You're the faun, huh?"
Celandine blinked a moment, lost in confusion before she agreed. "Indeed I am, dwarf …" Due to her original bad guess with Garrett's gender she had come to not assume anything about what was under a dwarf's beard.
"Steadfast," Steadfast smiled, although very briefly. "Male, mmm."
That certainly helped. Even Vanimar seemed to relax at the comment.
"Master Steadfast," Celandine once more nodded. "I am Celandine, of Corone, and this is my companion, Vanimar of Sanctuary."
"Th'drow bodyguard, hmm?" the dwarf beside him, one with a higher voice - so possibly female, but one must not make assumptions - and blonde hair braided back from their face seemed to giggle. Then they lowered the tankard in their hands and waved. "I'm Bolor. Steadfast's be'er half."
"Be'er half?" Steadfast raised an eyebrow.
"Bodyguard?" Vanimar whispered with caution, but he was cut off when Mistress Garrett came forward.
"Th'others Umbrian and Canin," she introduced quickly. "They are a scou'ing party, who'ave been followin' the directions you gave to the wee cave in."
It took Celandine a moment to understand. "Cave in? You mean in the old mines?" It seemed like another lifetime ago that she, Umbra, Vanimar and another few dark elves had tracked a route from Sanctuary to the Jagged Mountains, discovering the ancient mining tunnels that held a secret that just might win the war. Originally Celandine herself had researched and then found a rudimentary route through natural caves to the western coast of Alerar, with the idea that it could make an escape route for the dark elves still held hostage within Sanctuary. Further studies had led her to realise that the old dwarven mines were actually created to find the incredibly rare metal that could, if forged correctly, create a sword that could once more seal the portal through which the demons had originally come.
Surprised and aghast, realisation coming to her, the ten year old stared in earnest at the dwarves and placed the pieces of the conversation together.
"Wait - you have returned. And so that means -"
"Aye, we would've returned sooner bu' th'storm kept us undergroond fer some time. I'm afraid also tha' there been more collapses because of … fierceness." Steadfast grimaced, and shook his head. "We cannae get an army through there the now."
"You cannot get an army through the mines?" Vanimar said, alarmed, his eyes wide. "But that means -"
"Nay to worry," Mistress Garrett came to his aid. "We've been sendin' small groups o'troops through the last few days. Steadfast and a' can confirm their passage past the wee cave in."
"Aye," it was Bolor's turn to talk now. "They're all through. But af'er tha' storm. Af'er all that loose ground, it's no worth risking it."
So the dwarves had managed to send at least some reinforcements to Sanctuary. Glancing at Vanimar with a sigh of satisfaction, Celandine felt a little more hope. It meant that Commander Raimneth was more likely to be alive and capably holding his position. Vanimar responded with a pleased nod, agreeing with her perceptions.
"That is good to know, thank you," the young scholar held her hands together before her and did not hide the relief in her expression. "It means a lot to us. But the other news …"
"Aye. Ken." Bolor sat up straighter as the one called Umbrian leaned to the side of their box chair and brought up a large haversack to their lap.
"We managed t'mine and fin' more ore. Thanks to ye."
The cords of the sack were tugged upon, undoing the knot as Bolor spoke. Celandine caught her breath in her chest, unashamedly in her excitement patting at Vanimar's arm.
"Aye," Bolor nodded as the fabric fell open, revealing several large black rocks. One tumbled directly to the floor, showing the rich silvery veins inlaid into the grey stone. It landed at Celandine's feet as Vanimar breathed in sharply, and very lightly touched the faun's smallest finger.
"Jus' enough to forge," Umbrian whispered softly, picking one of the ores up and turning it so the metallic element glinted in the candlelight. "Jus' enough. Perfect. To reforge the sword of the First King."
The rest of the day was sung to the tune of heavy hammers, ringing out a routine rhythm that was ages old and sacredly undertaken. The music was that of skilled artisans, sweating brows and grunts of labour, with keen eyes watching each strike, sharp ears listening to each note. The bass thudded in their hearts and the alto lifted their spirits, as the flames of the forge gave a source of inspiration and creation that spun the shimmering metal from the rocky ore like thread from a fleece.
Celandine watched in awe, the process moving without haste and also without hesitation, from heating the fires to pooling the molten metal into a sensible mould. The process took many long hours, well into the darkness of the night, and the smiths performed as many tasks simultaneously as was possible, with the first forms of metal being added to create the blade, and additional layers added as more silver was leaked from ore. It was a process that Celandine did not find familiar, but she noticed that as the smiths worked they also hummed softly, every so often pronouncing a single word in some ancient dwarven tongue. And when they did sparks would fly, a glow would come from their hammers and magic would undoubtedly be instilled into the making of the beautiful and fate-changing blade.
It was dedication and focus. It was beauty and it was hardship. Smiths and acolytes and warriors came and went, going to rest and eat between shifts of work to come back fully restored and once more work upon the hopeful miracle. Yet through it all it was the young faun who remained a constant; watching in tireless wonder as her studious devotion was given life.
Mistress Garrett returned after twilight, alongside Steadfast, and sat with her beneath the canopy in the low chairs. Heat made their foreheads bead with sweat almost immediately, but it was little bother to them, for a true wonder was in the making. Silence was between the faun and the two dwarves, the former now used to others coming and going. Vanimar for example had not been seen by her since lunchtime and further dwarves, even those not related to the mission, had sat and had their meals with her for an hour or so before going back to their ordinary duties. Yet it was the three of them that were there when the smiths finally placed down their hammers and the final sizzle of cooling metal resounded around the well-ventilated tent. Careful eyes gazed over the blade, and a few more strokes of a sharpening stone was run across the length before the master of the ceremony nodded and slowly smiled beneath the firelight.
"I present," he strode forwards to the company, and paused before twisting the sword and offering the hilt to Mistress Garrett, "the remaking of a legend. Using silver steel, this magically inclined sword made with the strongest and most durable of metals known to exist to us may just hold hope for us all."
A single, collective breath. Shaking with anticipation and a lack of sleep Celandine stared in awe and leant towards Garrett. The dwarven elder though took the offer proferred to her and gently wrapped her half gloved hand around the leather bound hilt, slowly nodding.
"A work of art indeed, Master Drakju. You and your smiths and your mages have done well. Let us hope that this will work."
Steadfast gave a wince, hating the latter suggestion but the faun was still mesmerised. The blade itself was shorter and stockier than anything she was used to - definitely more so than the original sword. It had a thickness to the middle where the metal had been piled and folded numerous times, and a narrow edge on either side of the double fuller that would allow for an easier stab, should the sword ever need to be used for such a thing. But the idea was that this sword would never see battle or blood, for it's silvery sheen sung with many a beautiful glint, as if starlight itself had been captured, bottled and hidden in its materials.
"It's beautiful," Celandine whispered in utter fascination. "Even the hilt …"
It was delicately wrapped in dark leather, then bound with red twine. Three shining gems were tied into this cord to enhance the quality and entice the wielder to notice the brightness that sparkled in the straight blade.
"Aye," Mistress Garrett murmured. Then she sighed, but it was full of satisfaction and joy. With a quiet smile she nodded to the Master Smith and Drakju slipped over a plain looking sheath made of the same leather. Carefully, moving to hold the sword in her hands the elder dwarf paused, before turning to Celandine and holding out the sword.
"It is right you should carry this. I want you to guard it with your life."
A gasp uttered from the scholar's lips. "I will …" she whispered in reverence as her fingers wrapped around the beautiful sword that she had been the one to initially discover as a solution to all their problems.
"I know," Garrett agreed firmly, staring at her with solemnity and trust. "And I know you will try everything to return this to where it must go. I pray your journey will not meet any troubles."
Celandine nodded, biting her lip a little. "Of course. But - but Steadfast said that the caves were impossible to tread now, not without much work and time, which we don't have."
"Which is why he and his company will be taking you overland," Garrett confirmed. "It is the only way."
Overland. Through the fields and forests, through the lands now burnt and raided by countless demons. Danger at every crossroad and beyond each river bend.
"Oh," she murmured.
"Indeed," Garrett confirmed grimly. "And you leave at first light."
Once more the trickle of pink-tinged light greeted the faun and her company, peeking nervously over the horizon as they set out upon the mission that would be fate-defying. Their names, if successful, would be immortalised in history books, and even the names of the goats they rode would be whispered in awe in the corners of tavern houses.
This was not the destiny Celandine had originally considered for herself. It was neither her intention of coming to this land of technology and mystery, nor the individual desire she had set. It was her mother, after all, who had firstly volunteered and then encouraged her as the diplomat for the Aleraran mission - a mission which had twisted emphatically from simple politics to fearsome fighting for one's life and honour.
With clattering hooves the shorthaired goats sped their easy way down the sharp inclines of the Jagged Mountains, hopping and racing from rock to rock without hesitation. Their ungulate toes perfectly gripped the crevices and cracks, allowing a pristine balance as they bore their riders deeper into Alerar. Looking back behind her Celandine found herself grinning at the panicked look still upon Vanimar's face - one which had been there since he had been told they were going by goat-back.
"But horses," he had whispered. "Horses or - or even a train …"
But the steam locomotives that connected the major cities of Alerar - true masterpieces of their revolutionary produce - had been silent and unseen for weeks. Where to even begin in discovering where one might be found, and then trusting that the rail lines were still entirely intact for the whole journey, was impossible to source fact for, let alone rumour. There was no track either that was known to go directly to Sanctuary, and without the knowledge it was hopeless to even suggest such a thing.
And so goats it had been, for goats was what steeds the dwarves possessed.
"You're fine," the young faun teased her companion. "Just grip with your hooves."
"Feet and ankles," Vanimar grumbled, sinking further down into his saddle.
"Ankles. Yes!" She responded, and didn't stop smiling as she turned ahead to view the leaders of their company.
Steadfast and Bolor kept close to one another, riding on matching black-coated steeds. Serene determination was upon their faces, as if nothing more could falter the hope they held in their hearts.
Celandine's goat loudly bleated as he took a great leap into the air, launching himself from a rocky outcrop. Gripping tightly she sharply dragged in her breath and then held it as her and it flew. Seconds harmlessly passed, silent as the wind, before coming down again with a heavy thump and then continuing to gallop over the next pathway. Excitement beat wildly at her chest, filling the faunish tendency to love a race in the open air. She felt free, and lacking in fear as if this was what she was meant to do.
But the old days of her adventuring desires were over. Despite finding this excursion exhilarating, Celandine knew that her passions still lay in books and legend. She felt the sword of destinies flat against her back, tied tight and then hidden under a large shawl. She thought back to when she had met Steadfast and his company earlier that day, and how she had recognised him directly as an adventuring type. It seemed her senses and instincts of people were becoming sharper; a hint of perhaps her blessing and ken growing.
Behind her a frightened cry told of Vanimar's beast of burden doing the same leap as hers. This time she did not turn to make comment - she just smiled again, knowing that her closeness to the dark elf was growing and that either it would all end in joy or heartbreak, such was the way of these things. Perhaps it was boring and/or stereotypical of her to find romance in the time of war, but all legends needed a romance, did they not? It made the story for the bards to sing more attractive. Or perhaps she was only dreaming of what could be. Of what her mother had never allowed herself to have. Of what was so typical, so seemingly apparent in every tale, but so hard to grasp in real life.
By midday they had descended down the sides of the mountains and were in the last stretches of wilderness that occupied much of northern Alerar. Farms and woods were also present, but they were all dead to the world currently, with burnt trees and abandoned fields. Without a thought for fence or wall or boundary the goats and their riders pressed ever onwards, for their journey was a vital role, their purpose determining empires.
By nightfall they had come into the desolate landscape that had been left in the wake of the demon armies. Villages full of empty houses and woods plundered for every beast and berry, alongside the rivers that in some cases were still red with blood. Once Bolor waded upstream but returned only ten minutes later looking pale and frigid, as if frightened to the very core. What he had seen was only told to Steadfast; and the two of them seemed so horrified that it became forbidden to speak of what the experience had been.
They set up camp at the foot of a mighty crag, using the cliffside and ledges to provide some cover but also an advantage point. Celandine did not know what 'watch' meant as a noun and simply stared when it was suggested she do such a thing in a shift, but it was quickly decided that she should rest, and keep the silver sword upon her at all times. After all, she was it's guardian.
Around the fire they gathered, tents erected and a smattering of salted beef heating on the fire with some nuts and potatoes snuggled into the outside embers. A chill wind flew across the landscape, but the mountain's crag protected them to some extent. Still, Vanimar took the chance to sit beside her, his eyes still wild from the irregular ride and paused before extending his warm woollen cloak around her.
"I'll be taking watch around midnight," he murmured, his crimson eyes focused on her. "So I won't be …"
"I'll be sleeping," Celandine said, almost confused. "Just don't wake me up when you come back in from your … watching."
The drow paused a moment, and gently smiled with amusement. "My shift, but yes. All you do is remain alert on the ledge and make sure no trouble comes to the camp."
"I see," the faun replied. "I still don't quite get it, but good luck. Where are the goats?"
"Grazing on the hillside," Vanimar gestured with his chin.
"Good," she didn't look around at the crag behind them but did notice the way the flames danced as the coldness bit. Taking a corner of the cloak at her side she tugged it further around her. Slightly, she nibbled her lip, noticing how the other dwarves of the company were just casually talking and acting as if this was their daily normal lives.
"What's the matter?" Her companion murmured, noticing the stress in the forehead and other lines of her face.
"You would think I had not just spent three weeks living in sewers and mines," she whispered as a reply, a vague smile on her face. "But this - this camping is nothing I'm used to."
"You're used to a fortress?" He asked.
"Exactly," she nodded. "Not war, not wielding a sword that can save the world."
Vanimar gazed at her a moment and then leaned in closer. "You're the perfect person for the mission, Celandine Rameses," his voice was rich with admiration. "... You're perfect."
You're. You. You are. You.
The look of surprise on her face was astounding. The firelight exposed her eyes as they glistened, natural moisture making them dance.
"Vanimar - you're - I -"
"Beef anyone?"
Then all hell broke loose.
It couldn't be the middle of the night. It couldn't be after they had eaten and were curled up in their tent and gazing into each other's eyes, not knowing their future or where you'd friendship would now go. No, it had to be then, right there, after he had said it …
But the story was never meant to be a romance. It was meant to be a mission on the edge of possibility, of defying the odds against everything fate had thrown at them. Reason dictated that all notice of affection or attraction could not last long, despite the steady build up in tension and suggestion. For both Celandine and Vanimar knew that the tale was really a tragedy.
Sweeeee - thump - hiss!
Fifteen arrows, dark, ugly and jagged, flew out from the shadows of the darkness surrounding the camp. With heavy thuds they landed right at where the company was resting, one shooting directly into the large steak that Umbrian was holding up fresh from the fire and savagely pinning it to his chest. The dwarf let out a loud and agonising scream as the other arrows landed in the ground, tents and fire. Hot and burning wood scattered, dangerously rolling towards the tents, but that did not concern any of the dwarves.
Immediately the three remaining leapt to their feet, now that Umbrian was left in the dirt, clutching at his chest that was quickly becoming covered in thick, dark and wet crimson. He was still screaming, and the shrill noise filled Celandine's ears, making her quake with sudden fear as Steadfast and Bolor ran out into the night to find whatever perpetrator had begun this terrible fight.
More arrows.
Celandine felt herself hit the ground, pain exploding in her back as she was thrown down. Suddenly, Vanimar was on top of her, straddling her with his deep red eyes boring into hers similarly filled with anxiety, but he was making no move on her. This was a powerful gesture of protection, covering her body with his as the arrows thudded into the ground around them.
Her breath was panting. She was frightened, lost, confused. Whimpered lightly she tried to push against the weight of the dark elf on top of her, but he was a warrior and she a simple scholar. There was no comparison.
"Vanimar," she whispered.
More screams of agony. Then one of anguish. Utter fear and hatred, and a thundering curse in dwarvish. Twisting her head to the side Celandine saw a sudden blazing fire as one of the tents caught alight, and standing in its silhouette was a disformed and horrid figure. Horns sprouted from its skull in an odd pattern, claws raked angrily at the air. And it's eyes glowed like coals as it pulled back its head and howled with devious laughter.
"Puncil!" Vanimar growled, in some elvish Celandine did not know. Quickly, he shoved her aside, not being gentle about it and swung to his feet. Drawing his short sabre he stood over her, baring his tall height, jet black skinned and bloody haired, then let out a thin hiss.
"Run, Celandine," he ordered her. "Run. Get to the Sanctuary and end this."
"Wh-what?" she breathed, shocked at his suggestion. She had kept the sword with her - it was a flat board against her back - but his words were alien to her.
"No, we were going to -"
"Run!" he screamed as the grotesque saw them, twisted and then began to run towards them on all four legs, it's horrid eyes glinting with nothing but savagery.
Celandine was no warrior - she was a young scholar, a wealth of knowledge and recently a sneaky sneak. But not a warrior. Wisdom told her she would be nothing but a hindrance in this fight.
After scrabbling to her hooves she briefly looked for a last time at him. Locked into a vicious duel Vanimar was waging his own battle against the demon, striking when he could and defending where was needed. With sabre and long dagger in hand he was equally matched - for now.
A whistle and another arrow landed in the dirt at Celandine's feet. Fine. Fine. She was going.
Her hooves skittered on the looser rocks as she turned literal tail, pulling her knitted jacket around her tightly and again feeling the hardness of the sheath and blade. A comfort, if anything. Racing towards the cliffside she moved towards the straggling tents which had not yet burnt down. If she was to make this last stretch on her own she needed her satchel. After all, she had borrowed books from the Sanctuary library and -
"Wha' are yeh doin'?" came a surprised but appalled cry.
Celandine had just been at the fold of her and Vanimar's tent flap, her hand pulling it away. Twisting she was faced with the stocky and wide-eyed figure of Steadfast, his ginger beard streaked with blood.
"Ge' ou' of here, girl!" he roared. "Ge' yoursel' and tha' sword to Sanctuary! Yeh hear?"
"I was just getting …"
"Now!" the lead dwarf roared, turning around to batter a tiny but precise flying imp darting towards them, sharp fangs bared.
"Drys," Celandine cursed. But Steadfast was just as right as Vanimar. Grabbing the closest thing she could see - her oilskin wrapped books which at least had some of her precious manuals. Close by was also a small pouch of basic supplies +
- spark rocks, dry rations, a skin of water.
As she came out of the tent Steadfast pressed a hand at her shoulder and pushed her sharply towards the cliffside. There a goat had been tethered, partly up the slope and pulling desperately at the end of his rope with utter fear in its eyes. It was the runt of the bunch, but it was all she had.
Running over to it she was briefly reminded of the pygmy goat, Renegade, she had made friends with back in the woods of Corone, yet this beast was bigger and stronger. Her own hooves helped as she struggled up the slate and shale, to the feverishly petrified goat. Placing out her hands before her she begged it with a cry to calm down but it seemed to not hear her. The nosies of fighting, the fire raging, the whistling of deadly arrows seemed too much - and Celandine could honestly understand. Running forwards she aimed to grab it by the harness but as she did it fearfully thrashed, causing a wide and dangerous swing of its horns.
"Drys!" she cried again. She knew she needed to get out of here as others fought for her own freedom. Gave their lives for her potential. Umbrian. Steadfast. Vanimar.
Gritting her teeth the faun who's lonely birthday celebration seemed just a fantasy moved around and up the steep slope to get a good hoof above the mount. As she watched it continue to moan and thrust she calculated a position and distance above it, shaking herself to try to ignore the other sounds and -
Jump. Leaping through the air she crossed her fingers and prayed hard. But as a faun her skills and performance with climbing and leaping were higher than other mortals. Quite neatly she landed into the saddle of the goat, and though she slipped to the side a little as it reared she managed to hold on, gripping with knees and onto the harness directly. Then, grabbing her pocket knife she defiantly slashed down to break the rope that kept them attached to the cliffside.
Without hesitation the riding goat launched itself into the air. The rest of the flock had by now fled into the night, and she and her beast would join them. As the camp began to brighten with the spreading fire Celandine made her goat race away, faster and faster and more desperately as they took each hoofstep. Faster and faster, further away from the demon attack none of them had expected, away from the blood and heading back towards where this had all begun.
Sanctuary.
Time could not be wasted. It was not a currency that the young faun could decide on her own to spend. Everything was now up to her - the destiny of Alerar and the friends she had made along the way was within her small hands, clutched in the palms that held no love for war, yet had passion for history and learning and culture.
Wildly, the goat ran across the country, veering at points and frustratingly clumsy, but she kept kicking. Indeed, she could feel the terror in the creature, and the exhaustion already as she bade it forwards, but there was nothing to be done. She could leave it behind and run herself - but the goat would still need to race to get away from the demons that likely were scattered throughout these lands. Perhaps thousands of them now were in the country - nobody knew - and perhaps they had already breached the walls of the fortress that made up Sanctuary, but Celandine had to hope. She had to risk herself as others had risked before her, and the goat had to push himself also.
"This is my land as much as yours," she whispered in its ear. "We are both strangers here but if we are to protect lives we have to get there. Keep going for me, dear one."
As if he understood her the goat, although foaming at the mouth, focused his eyes ahead and under her guidance leapt over the thinning river before them. Grassland stretched like an endless haven, bordered by a low series of hills. Using her mind and memory of the many maps she had studied, Celandine calculated the way to Sanctuary and set them towards it, opposite to the rising sun. It was a wide stretch of flat land, one which was easy to traverse and would allow a view if any enemies were to sneak up on them.
Run, run, she told herself. "Run."
And run they did. Kept running. All day, never stopping, away from the battle that had sprung up, towards more certain danger, but towards fate.
It was easily afternoon by the time she heard anything behind them. Twisting around, as weary as her mount, Celandine saw the cloud of dust on the horizon. It was a plume, far too small to be a dust storm, kicked up by some creature. Though she could not hear any obvious noise above the clattering of her own mount's hooves, the faun still could tell from the shouts that the cloud was not friendly. Or at least, not worth slowing down for. Grimacing, she shook her head, kicking the goat hard.
"South," she directed it. "South!"
It was too early really to turn that direction, from where she knew the gates of Sanctuary were, but Celandine was taking no risks. If an enemy was behind her from this distance she would need to get hidden - and fast. Through the previous weeks of hunting and searching she was sure she knew of a possible tunnel entrance here somewhere. There were a dozen or so across the land, hidden as outcrops or caves that no-one had really explored in the recent years.
This far away from the Jagged Mountains and the mines, and more specifically from where the storm had been she hoped truly that nothing would be improper and that the path would be clear. Cave-ins had been warned to her, but she needed to use her mind and memory.
And hope. Above all, hope.
Always hope. However much it was mentioned. It was worth mentioning again.
A whinny. A horse or some similar beast. Friend or foe, she could not know, but she had to be gone from here. Steering her goat down from the flat plain onto a slope she spied a splinter in the land before her and charged towards it. Eyes searching eagerly as they kept raising their speed, she scanned the exposed rock face. Grey and white, brown with a dappled texture from the many grasses and brackens within were obvious, but it was the shadows she needed. Growling at herself she guided the goat more directly towards the largest part of exposed rock and kept looking, chewing the inside of her lip until …
There. A deeper and darker shadow. A natural crack in the stone.
"There!" she yelled and pointed suddenly jubilant, and her mount obeyed.
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