The Autumnal Regret

[Jennifer Oakley]

The Autumnal Regret (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_tHgtzAJePo)

I cannot remember the last time I smiled at true beauty, at pure charity, it eloquence given human form. So many wars, so many things to regret, so many misdirected notions and disregarding traditions; it is no wonder the earth rebels at their very presence, at their soul and movements upon its surface. Like a scorned woman, the Spirit, the Conclave, the cordial council of nature is slowly but surely taking its toll on the borders of compromise. It seeks penance from its children for their sins, seeks to reclaim some ounce of dignity directly from the hands of the woodsman, the mage, the architect. It’s will is absolute, for it has the power of earth and wood behind it, ever changing and brutal. The wind and air scorns its victims, the unseen assailant in the bough of thatch and slate rooftop. The fire consumes, thought tamed by man foolishly so, for it is as unpredictable and unrelenting as the waters that wait, the waters that are undeniable, unsleeping, malleable and eternal.

The coming war between the children of the gods and the gods themselves is much prophesised and discussed, below the sundry stars avatars of Thayne and furious devil alike do battle and deed in their chosen name. Monikers flash through rumour mills, N’Jal, Tantalus, Ynede. It is somewhat ironic, even to me, that this war between the immortals is but a precursor to the wrath of nature becoming paramount and ever present. It is with the task of education, that the druids and the Nina are booned, our scholarly ways and peaceful prohibitions seek to slowly seep out across Corone and beyond, foretelling the time when Althanas will no longer allow us our ways, our homes, our lives.

We must act now, not to save ourselves. But to save us from the crying mother, the lonely son, the spirit of life itself. She is an angry and vicious spirit, but of this tale, I will tell no more. Come to the cavernous glades of the Ancient temples, lulled on wings of promise and purity. You have come here on your own volition, for your own purposes and your own intent, but here you are, I look down upon you and smile. Let me tell you why you are here, and why you must aid us in restoring the balance of the Conclave, of Concordia herself.


---

I am the sun, the winter’s banishment,

You are the moon, the twilight kings.

In forest’s throng we are united,

Eternal is our bond to the state of things.

“Long ago, when the Thayne forged the trappings of reality and plucked from their minds the first tenets of Althanas, they sewed four souls into the forests of the world. These small, malleable creations embodied the machinations of nature, the intricate detailing that made spring blossoms grow, winter snows fall, summer sun saunter, and autumnal leaves fall. It is these creatures that have peeled away the illusion of the forest, allowed you to enter the solitude of the Concordia trees, enter the abode of the druids and the darker beings. Long ago, you would have died, torn asunder by virulent branches, long ago, you would be compost to feed the consuming growth, but now you are heaven, and you are nature’s champion, her mistress, their saint.

It has been one cycle of the sun since the Autumnal Queen, Brachia, set foot into the glade of our camp, her siren song calling the men of our people deep into the shadows. Taunting us and goading us, she challenged the priesthood to dare stand against her, to dare draw her from the very same exile we inflicted upon her so many decades ago. Her wrath is tumultuous, her vengeance assured, but we must act against her all the same to ensure the balance between the spirits of the forest’s children, and the Mother herself is preserved.”

With a sweeping hand and grace like breeze touched bough, Jennifer nodded and pointed to the woman stood patiently at her side, skin as old as the lichen that adorned her robes. With a shuffle of her naked feet she drew herself nearer the edge of the dais, looking down on the gathered few who’d found themselves in the throng of the fireside camp. It was an ancient temple, a crossroads between the north and the south which had served as a meeting point for covens and craven cavaliers longer than anyone could remember. The crumbling stone and bird filled anti-silence were a perfect background and ambience to such a solemn occasion.

“My name, children, is Mother Fiargo, priestess of the Nina and guardian of the forest’s borders. I hope you will listen, and take heed of our words, for you have come here by chance and the Fate’s have decreed you all guardians of nature, champions of the deep earth. Will you help us; will you hear our plan to release our fathers and sons from Brachia’s cold clasped heart?”

Time seemed to settle, encroaching deeper into the clearing as if reclaiming the ancient site of mystical power for its own unintended purpose. The Summoned, the Priestess, the Daughter, a tri-partite trilogy of repetitive but deeply understood traditions. Fiargo smiled at her fellow priest, and waited for an answer from the gathered strangers who’d stumbled upon her request. She still was too young, behind the withered face, to know if they’d been brought here by chance, or by the spirit’s guidance, but she was thankful under her breath that they had arrived all the same.

[Izvilvin]

Concordia Forest, as it often did, seemed to reverberate with vibrant life, glowing bright in the morning sun. Though it had its dangers, Concordia was a relative safe haven in these troubled times, untainted by Xem’zund’s return and providing enough wildlife to feed the entirety of Corone, were it necessary.

This would have been a reasonable enough reason for Izvilvin to return there and live his life in the wilderness, but it was not the only one. He knew the forest and the continent enormously well, having spent several years off the border of Corone living in a makeshift fort he’d built. Previously he’d lived in the Alerian mines in Kachuck, using a failed assassination mission as cover to fake his own death; decades later he found the opportunity to escape to Scara Brae, where he fell into the same kind of lifestyle with the Scara Scourge. He fared no better when he came to Corone, where Step first found and recruited him. It seemed that wherever he went, Izvilvin was identified for what he was and used for his talents. He was a warrior, nothing else – the possibility of developing a normal social personality had long passed.

But Concordia Forest was the first place where the drow felt at home, excluding those early years in Ettermire with his family. There was something about the lack of humanity, the presence of nature, the dependence he had on himself that appealed to him. Step was abolished. He was finally able to live in peace, until the next phase in his life began. Izvilvin was in no rush.

As time went on, however, Concordia had changed. Animals were behaving strangely, running from threats that he could not see nor hear; attacking other animals which were not their usual prey; even trees, Izvilvin could swear, had occasionally reached out in an attempt to harm him.

It was this one-ness with the forest, and his desire to maintain it, which pushed the warrior to investigate this strange new development he’d discovered. A creature he didn’t recognize, in the shape of a panther but the color of his own eyes, strangely translucent in the sun, stalked forward along a purposeful path. It was the first creature of its kind he had ever seen, but somehow he knew it to be linked to the forest’s unusual changes.

Izvilvin moved with the speed of a cat and even more quietly, his eyes locked on the creature ahead of him, which seemed just too fast for him to catch up to unnoticed. He brushed branches out of his way with practiced ease, the time melting away with each step.

It was quickly noon and the high sky warmed the forest, and Izvilvin slowed as the trees began to thin. He took his eyes off the panther for just a moment to look ahead, to see the side of what appeared to be an ancient building, and when he looked back the beast was gone.

His ears picked up the faintest of speech in the distance, the voice of a young woman. Still far enough away to avoid detection, Izvilvin stepped forward and gazed upon the building more intently. Ivy crawled its yellow stone walls, weeds sprouting from cracks so deep they promised to be older than he himself. The temple was open, with several people at the peak of a high staircase, where Izvilvin imagined an altar once stood.

Taking just a second to reflect on the lavender panther which led him here, the drow moved stealthily forward against the temple’s wall, creeping silently forward until he could hear perfectly the words which came from above. He could not understand them all, nor understand the depth of the request being made of the gathered listeners, but heard that help was being asked for.

He did understand, however, ‘guardian’, as it had once been his title in Jya’s Keep in Fallien, and ‘nature’, for it was a common word.

It was those words, as he considered Concordia’s recent changes, that had him waiting eagerly for what would be said next.

[Papa Dagon]

Though Dagon Dessalines was every bit the bohemian he seemed to be – what with his dreadlocked hair, tattered coat, hobnail boots, shoddy top hat and tie-dyed shirt – the haggard wanderer believed there was worth in tailoring his life to a specific set of personal commandments. Most were whimsical but in many situations had been proven most appropriate, such as his rule that should life give him lemons, he should never make lemonade: the practice was childish, the process time-consuming and the result hardly enough to quench the thirst of an adult. No, when life gave him lemons, he bought vodka.

Yet today, in the midst of the forest of Concordia, life did not in fact give him a batch of unpleasantly acidic citrus. What it did give him was the first context in which he could apply another one of his graver rules: ‘when one of your spiritual guides starts asking you for help, turn back and run as if death were on your shadow’. As a witch doctor, Dagon had met his fair share of these alleged guides in the spirits of the Loa, and he had found their aid in his times of need invaluable. It was, however, always a bad omen when they asked for a favor in return. More often than not, the tasks they would send him on were more dangerous than the circumstances in which he had consulted their wisdom or borrowed their powers... and he had an inkling today would be no different.

Alas, the spirit to have requested this personal favor today was not as lenient as the others when it came to letting certain things slide. This morning, Grand Bois had mounted the fetish Dagon had crafted from the shrunken body of a baobab tree: its roots wailed as they bent into the semblance of a fanged mouth, the hollows in its bark bursting with an ethereal green, and the Loa spoke. Spoke of the corruption spread by the hand of a usurper queen, of the damage she was inflicting to the denizens of the forest and the cults that worshipped it. Spoke of his choice to lend a helping hand… or risk losing an idle one.

Grand Bois was the elemental spirit of Nature, seemingly good-natured in quiet times but capable of the same ferocious unpredictability as his symbol and domain. He was also the Loa Dagon relied on the most, as the spirit guided him towards sources of food and water, gave him direction when lost, and never refused to lend the shaman a fraction of his tremendous might. To refuse this favor would be the same as ending a contract that might as well have been written in blood. Dagon had no reason to doubt the Loa’s willingness to enact his threat; he knew there would be no running from this.

By noon, he had reached the clearing in the forest where the vine-infested ruins of a temple had endured the sands of time. Erosion had done its work, the winds having whittled every crack and fissure over centuries, and the rain having washed away what druidic scriptures had once been carved into the ochre stones. Ivies had snaked up and into the grand stairway, breaking through the flagstones in gold and vermillion patches of halberd leaves.

A throng of people were gathered at the top, though most seemed to be the old woman’ attendants, with the occasional dryads and other such mystic creatures gathered about in curiosity. Some sat on the ground like wide-eyed children listening to old wives’ tales; others leaned on faulty railings, detached from the old crone’s expositional story. Dagon joined the latter, partly because sitting on the ledges was more comfortable, but mostly because he had missed the beginning and did not want to look like a straggler.

Any other time, he would have readily noticed the few ravishing gems that stood amongst the crowd, notably this one woman attending to Mother Fiargo. Unfortunately, he was more focused on completing this task as fast as he could with as few hitches as possible, than on the notion of wooing a charming stranger. If anything, that would have to wait until after.

When the beldam asked her query, Dagon merely nodded, as did some of the others who clearly did not inhabit this forest: he would have been surprised to see anyone decline, as they all seemed to have gone through quite a lot of trouble to even get to this secret garden. He hoped, albeit naively, that that had been the hardest part of the journey ahead.

[Valanthe]

Morning in Concordia, Valanthe was never more grateful for waking up than she was today. She was a deeply spiritual person, a follower of The Omnisource. As a druidess, she was very close to nature. As she was learning, sometimes her dreams were not her own. They all followed the same pattern as of late, the spirits of the forest were crying out for help, in a place deeper in the woods than she had ever dared to go, calling for rescue from a queen who was naught but a usurper.

Valanthe sat up; this had to be a sign. She looked around the clearing she was in; she had been here since her defeat at the hands of Teric Bloodrose in the citadel, nursing her pride. She had fought him in the citadel, and barely even scratched him. Even though she had gotten the drop on him by lying in wait in the form of a tiger, he had still possessed such remarkable reflexes as to dart out of the way when she sprang for the attack. Still, as she thought to herself then, better people than her had lost to the man so it was not anything to be ashamed of.

Standing up, she straightened her green robes, smoothed her hair, and took off for the deeper parts of the forest. She had to trust that the forest spirits were calling for her help. She idly considered taking a wild shape while she was still full of energy, but then reconsidered; she might need that ability later. Experimentation with the new ability taught her that she could only do it for so long, and only so many times a day.

Perhaps when she was stronger she could just turn into a horse and gallop off wherever she wanted, but for now, she just walked. She was considerably glad she did, for soon the forest changed its demeanor. Normally it was calm, happy to see her. Bushes and leaves even moved aside for her convenience. Now however, they had begun to tug at her, trying to keep her out, push her away from going deeper.

“Now listen, if you want me to help you, you can’t just be pushing me away. You have got to let me through to the deeper parts of the forest.” Valanthe said.

The forest still struggled against her all the same, but Valanthe managed to find paths deeper into the forest. Eventually she came to a stone building, covered in vines, ruined, yet still standing. It seemed to be noon, and a small group of people were listening to a few others outline the situation. She stood quietly behind them off to one side apparently having arrived at the start of things. Nearby, a man Valanthe thought was a homeless bum stood quietly as well. When the ancient woman asked if everyone was willing to help, Valanthe nodded with the group, surprised to notice the homeless man nodding too.

“What’s he going to do that’s helpful, beg?” Valanthe thought to herself as she formed a low opinion of the man just by his appearance.

“What must we do to help?” Valanthe asked, wanting to know nothing more than what they had to do to fix everything.

[Jennifer Oakley]

The noon light of the Althanas sun spiraled down in wavering columns through the sporadic openings in the canopy above the temple steps. As more brave wanderers appeared, and Mother Fiargo’s reprimands ceased to anger the young Summoned, a certain peace found its way into the air. “Our intent, based on the knowledge of our people, the Nina, is to travel South deep into Concordia to a place known as the Autumnal Reprieve. It is said that long ago, the glade where Briaccha’s Tree is now found was a portal to the spirit world, to the very source of nature itself. When the autumn faded and winter froze everything, Briaccha’s rage at her vanquishing simmered beneath the crystalline branches for months upon months. When the first snow became the last, and spring thawed the forests, she burst forth as a dead and disheartened Dryad of innumerable vengeances and spites.” Jennifer’s voice carried the deadly tale with a soft hint of the otherworldly, until the croaky and ancient baritone of Mother Fiargo took over without warning.

“She rampaged through the forest and destroyed thousands of acres of our heartland, so long was her wrath that deep in the folds of the past, we forget and the world forgets there ever used to be a forest here. It is in this glade we shall find her heart, the tree itself, and it is at this site that we must once again sedate Briaccha’s rage, and bind her will to that of a Summoned; a title many have carried in the years since the Spirit of Autumn awoke, but few have ever been willing to wield as a weapon against the spirit; there are, costs, remunerations, decisions one must make.”

Jennifer nodded in agreement, caressing the tip of her staff slowly with am intricacy that only appeared on the faces of the most focused scholar. She had heard this tale a thousand times, but the reminder of her ‘decision’ still stung like a thousand misspent summers. “The road to the South is long, and I am thankful that our call was heard by those akin to nature and to these woods, I hope you will come to respect the realm of the Nina, of Concordia and the Forest Conclave as much as you do your own homesteads and trees; if you will aid us, and mean us no harm, then the forest will be akin to an open field to us, not hindering nor attempting to harm those who have come to aid it.”

“-Hazard however the thought that this is a mere journey to an ancient shrine, capped with a battle, and you make the grave mistake of selfish delusions. It will be dark as we arrive, and at night, things come to life that not even Briaccha could kill. We must be fleet of foot and sound of mind to reach the Autumnal Reprieve, and once there, we must work together with more than sword and shield and branch and bough.”

“I hope that after all of this, you will still accompany us. In return we can offer some of the tree, once it is sundered and bound. The properties of this wood is what makes our staves, and it is a conducive material for the working of magic and natural or spiritual enchantments, something, from the look of you, that would come highly praised or of great use. If there are other things found on our journey, for there are many temples and strange herbs here, you may make use of them, should the forest let you.”

The two priestesses stopped their revelation, standing side by side as they did, staves both level and rested in front of them, eyes calm and serene like the gently moving branches of sycamore and oak that surrounded them. Once, this place had been a Great Temple to the Conclave, long before the Nina came to be, long before Y’rrede was worshipped, and as some had said, long before the forest itself. There was an ancient power here, a hum in the mind, but it was a mere reflected of the primal resonance they would be numbed by soon enough. Jennifer waited, smiling to herself as a distant voice at the back of her consciousness reminded her who exactly would be doing all this ‘fighting and spirit slaying’ they’d spoken of for days before.

The faintest hint of Cashmere throws and curdled milk filled the air, something Jennifer could not mask but hoped the gathered would not enquire about. Not now...not now Faustus... she mumbled, hoping to be discreet.

[Papa Dagon]

The people of Corone had a tendency to misread Dagon’s background: when the young attendant thanked the powers that be for this motley assemblage of natural mystics with a symbiotic love for woodlands, the witch doctor had half a mind to correct her. He hailed from the southern lands of Deru, where trees grew great and solitary. To him, a ‘forest’ had always been a finite tract of withering grasslands containing a dozen acacias and baobabs at most. Everything else had been murderous sun and animal corpses littering endless plains, cooking on rocky outcroppings until their bellies burst like overdone eggshells. To say that he was surprised to see these scraggly trees could be tightly-packed together for hundreds of acres, upon first arriving to these strange lands, would be an understatement.

He stayed his tongue, feeling he had no real desire to elaborate on matters of so little import. “Yeh, would be a pity to leave after walking so far, don’t ye think?” the bokkor answered at last in the slurs of his Deru accent, eliciting a wave of nods from the old woman’s druidic entourage. “And now I know why Grand Bois bothers with forests so much: most of his trees moved away from my country!” He laughed without restraint, patting his tattered trousers with hands so large the clapping sounds bounced off the temple walls and vanished into the forest in wavering echoes.

Adjusting the brim of his leathery top hat over his dreadlocks, he turned on his heels and headed for the top of the ancient stairway leading down. He stopped short of it, leaning on the stone railing as he looked back askance, a glint in his jade eyes aimed at the ravishing attendant. The meaning of it could not be more obvious. “Lead the way – and no need for boons and bribes: ye had old Dagon sold at ‘help us’, darling.” While that was not entirely true, as he did find interest in obtaining new materials for his craft of mystical fetishes, he would have come along even without the added bait.

Dagon let the woman pass before haring down the steps himself, at the helm of all other helpers that had been summoned to the temple, though not out of any ambitious intentions. He was there, simply because it was the position closest to the sultry druidess. He knew this was business and would never attempt anything, but that did not mean he had to abstain from a pretty little view during this quaint jaunt through a forest of untold horrors.

[Jennifer Oakley]

The untold horrors watched the procession as it trailed away from the Temple and proceeded to enter the first echelon of the Autumnal Regret, of the spirit's lair itself. It did not take long for the trees to thicken and for the animals that greeted their passing with chirp and bray to thin out, to hide, to vanish. In little time at all, the brambles grew twicefold and the lively lichen laden bark of the oak turned to corrupted and deadened wood, of little use to anyone of the herbal quaintness, except perhaps for use as kindling.

Jennifer walked with a vigouress waltzing, a kick to the step that only blind abandon could deliver to a soul. The man in the hat followed her, as did her Mother, at least for a time. As the others began to discuss matters of the forest and of life amongst themselves, she waited for the opportune moment, cast Jennifer an all knowing glance then slipped away with the arduous audacity to transform into a wolf in their very midst; she folded away into the undergrowth as if she'd never existed.

"It would appear, good brother of the herbs, that it is us just you, I, the dryad and the elf. Our task grows deeper and wearier by the hour, and the dead moss and vine hanging from the once glorious Throng of Oak is nothing but a mantle of thorns in our side. If this task is mine, and it's burden mine more so - what brings you here so strongly, with conviction I am scared of, and an honesty and righteousness about you I dare not question?"

She stepped over a fallen log with a delicate pounce and used her staff to propel her frail form to the other side. Her boots dug into the mud and thick decaying sludge with a squelch. The priestess took a deep breath and at the back of her nostrils, the smell of goat's milk flared once more. Jennifer cast a glance over her shoulder into the closing tree-line and shivered, those horrors so presumed, were becoming ever more real, and her heart, the very embodiment of her soul was waking in her body to protect her from the shadows that moved and conspired against them.