Of Winters and Warm Fires

Farinyir's Basin; Harroc, Mara, Khan

Domrhask, with eight magnificent towers, is Khy'eras' northernmost city governed by Dwarves. A cautious group due to past incidents, Dwarves do not easily invite adventurers inside and disapprove of magic in their city, no matter the type. Read more...
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Mara Whitewood
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Disciple of Ristgir
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Re: Of Winters and Warm Fires

Post by Mara Whitewood »

Most of the time Mara only truly knew someone by their voice. Their tone, the cadence with which they spoke, the words they chose, and their volume -- whether they were soft-spoken or boisterous -- all afforded her some insight into the speaker. The picture was by no means comprehensive, partly because it was relatively easy for anyone to fabricate a voice that wasn't their own, although she liked to believe she could usually tell the difference. For everyone else, at least for the majority of the time, it was but a window she could see through.

Listening to Khan describe his encounter, however indirect, was oddly soothing. As exciting as it was to hear that she and Harroc were on the right track after all, his low baritone and its natural rasp had a distinctly lulling effect. Mara knew at once what it reminded her of: waves rushing in from the sea, racing across the rocky shoreline and spilling into shallow tide pools in the rocks.

Lost in contemplation somewhere between a memory and the present, she was quiet long after Khan finished speaking. Before Mara realized the thread of conversation was unspooling in her hands, a familiar throaty howl in the distance pulled her from wherever her mind had gone. She lifted her head a little, only just now realizing that her chin had started to dip towards her chest as if she had been drifting off.

"Thank you," she said, far too late to be relevant. "Harroc will be glad to hear it."

Mara slipped her hands into the sleeves of her robe and continued to wait for the druid's return. There was a lot noise outside, like a tree was being torn in half, and several other sounds she wasn't entirely sure how to classify. Finally the even steps of Harroc's approach reverberated through the shallow cave and nerves she hadn't realized were tense relaxed.

Relocating her belongings to one side of her left the space open for Harroc to settle into. The grin in his voice brought a smile to her face, which she turned only slightly in his direction. "According to what our friend has just told me, it seems that you are correct."

Mara accepted Harroc's weight without complaint. She even went so far as to collect his closest his hand and press it between her own, ostensibly to fold it in a loose cocoon of warmth. "Would you like some tea? I have enough for everyone to warm their bellies."

"If not, perhaps we could share what we know." Another pat to Harroc's hand and then she returned it gently. " It is not your charge to assist us, sir, but you would be doing us a favor. We would be grateful."
Word count: 459
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Galynhun-Khan Tinnudir
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Khy'eras' Greatest Detective
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Re: Of Winters and Warm Fires

Post by Galynhun-Khan Tinnudir »

By the time the hunting party returned with an elk of good stock, his bowl was nearing its end, a tragedy by any account of his. The great wolf dropped its bounty on the cave floor, while Asfaloth padded close to nestle against her companion for warmth, still panting from the jaunt. Khan patted her head, sure to gently rub his thumb up and down the top of her snout; one of three favored places for scratching. The second being just above her bushy tail, and the third of course her soft belly. But only those she trusted, would she expose her most vulnerable side to for affection.

The druid departed again, only briefly, to return with more tinder for the fire and this time in human form. Khan watched as Harroc carved a recess in the stone floor beneath the fire; reminded again of what was lost to him. Even after hundreds of years, it was still as if Galynhun was an incomplete being; bereft of love and magic alike. That he now had to rely on others for what used to come as natural as breathing was most disagreeable, but there was naught to be done about it. It was partly why the ranger had given up on the old Gods and moved to worship worldly paragons. Real things that deserved his belief, and not some conceptual things to be taken with a giant leap of faith.

Khan nodded as the druid complimented his companion, not hearing anything about her he hadn’t concluded himself many moons ago. But, he was glad to hear they were not only his own perceptions, after all. In truth, their situation was one of ‘who rescued whom’; as far as he was concerned it was Asfaloth who had taught him to open his heart to love again, and how to trust. The ranger upended his smoking pipe, dumping the spent ash into the fire before rising to his full height and moving to the first slain elk. A clean, quick kill by the looks of it on both accounts. Though he expected no less from Asfaloth. Any hunter worth their weight in salt knew that if a wild beast wasn’t felled quickly and it gave chase, the meat was ruined by the flood of adrenaline. "Certainly, I shall take one and you may have the other." came his response to the kind offer of help. Though, he believed it was the least that could be done to prepare both of the animals for consumption, for all of Harroc's efforts in the hunt of them.

His dagger was drawn forth as he knelt over the beast, though he hung his head in silence for three beats of his heart to give thanks for the bounty. Hunting, for him, was a strange ritual. Just because he needed to ask of nature for sustenance, meant not he lacked the proper respect for upsetting the balance of an ecosystem; however slight. Both hands went to work to free the best cuts from the beast for consumption; whatever they didn’t eat tonight would be kept and dried for jerky on the trail. ”Tea sounds lovely,” he added, still busy with the task at hand.

Seven good steaks came easily, with several smaller cuts of still prime meat. None too fatty, none too lean. It was a magnificent specimen; Harroc had a good eye for meat, he had to admit. Though, how much of that was Asfaloth or the druid’s beastly instinct was unclear. No matter, it was time now for the steak to roast over the open flame. Bloodied hands toted the liberated cuts back to the fire, knowing full well there wouldn’t be much of anything going to waste tonight. For Khan, it had been days since he’d eaten a proper meal, giving Asfaloth priority over what meager bits of rations they had left. Three cuts were run through by his blade, and propped up near the flames to cook with a little work. As the cook, he would eat last.

With an eye on the meat, Khan considered the offer made to join them on their quest. Perhaps there had been a reason for his own journey this far north, aside from the wanderlust that seemed to plague him. ”Yes, I believe I would enjoy that,” he rumbled with a brief nod in acceptance of her offer. It had been quite some time since Khan had particularly enjoyed the presence of others outside of his familiar. Despite their rocky start, he believed these two were a decent sort. Having their skills to accompany his own were certainly welcome, if not their conversation.
Word count: 782
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Harroc Crownegrove
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Disciples of Balance, Defender of the Woods
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Re: Of Winters and Warm Fires

Post by Harroc Crownegrove »

Harroc enjoyed the comfort of Mara’s warmth as he settled his mind back unto itself. The process was complicated, and could lead to wild swings of emotion. He’d already made several mistakes and wanted to avoid further displaying his own lack of control. “Tea from you is always welcome Lightbringer,” he said quietly after Khan had offered his own acceptance. He shifted his weight to not lean against her any longer and then turned his attention to the Kerasoka hunter.

The man was clearly a practiced and skilled butcher if nothing else. His cuts were clean and left little wasted flesh. He was also clearly familiar with the need to give thanks for the bounty of the land. Harroc felt he trusted the man more than before. If Asfaloth held Khan in high regard, and he didn’t waste what natured offered to be taken, then he was likely worth the benefit of any doubts the Druid held.

His short rest completed, and wanting to give mara space to create the tea, Harroc rose and moved to the second elk carcass. He decided to flex his magics slightly, choosing to form a razor thin blade of stone from the cave floor rather than use his knife needlessly. Using the blade he made similar cuts to Khan’s own, though he was able to take an even closer edge by nature of his tool.

It took long minutes, but he completed stripping the animal and laid the meat out on the inside of his elk’s skin. His work complete he moved to the divot where his stone blade had been extracted. He let his hands drip blood into the cavity before placing a small piece of meat in as well. Then, with a neutral intonation, he spoke, "We come to you, guardians of this place, with clear intent. We make these offerings, that they might honor you and replenish what is lost." He then spent a moment in silent contemplation before smoothing over the stone to cover the offering.

In their idle chatter as they had returned with the elk, Asfaloth mentioned that Khan was old, many times older than she. Harroc wondered at this, and his work with the elk finished, he peered at the elf with his elemental sight. He’d seen Kerasoka before, and knew of the terrible curse that was laid upon them. He was familiar with them having essence paths that looked withered and blackened, like the remains of sapling after a raging fire.

When his vision adjusted he couldn’t keep a choked gasp from escaping his lips. Khan’s pathways were not small and withered. They were raggedly cut trails of ash, snapped and broken. “You are a living one. One of the elves who fought in the war. You’re essence paths, they’re not cursed, they’re simply torn from you. Like a bear takes from a fish,” Harroc said in a tumble of shivering words as his hands dripped blood. He found a deep terror welling in his gut. How could someone wield such power. He knew all the tales, had heard the lessons and warnings, and yet when faced with a tiny fraction of the result he sat shaken to his core.
Word count: 545
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Mara Whitewood
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Disciple of Ristgir
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Re: Of Winters and Warm Fires

Post by Mara Whitewood »

Mara saw to the tea while Harroc and Khan dressed their respective elks. She retrieved the necessary accouterments from her satchel -- chiefly the small pot, the water skin, a trio of cups and a canister of tea leaves -- and carried them to the fire. With the same practiced care that she did just about everything else, she placed the little pot of water just within range of the dancing flames and subsided to wait.

Conversation fell to the wayside while the trio settled into their respective tasks. Between waiting for the water to boil and eventually fishing it out of the fire, she tried to track her companions and their progress by sound alone, which was not altogether telling by itself. It was hard to gauge where they were in terms of completion, since trimming meat and cracking joints didn't have sounds distinguishable from one to the next. To add to that, the smell of freshly spilled iron-rich blood was almost overpowering, rivaling even the wood smoke just feet away.

Harroc's voice gentled in reverent, ritual prayer brought a small smile to her face as she was dispensing water into the cups. Ixaziel did not speak to her in her dreams, not the way she believed Ristgir did, and yet her friend's devotion was heartening. Twisting the lid from the canister of tea leaves, she mused on that and nothing in particular.

Mara jerked her head up at the sound of a sharp breath, nearly dropping the tin. "What is it," she started to ask, but was forestalled. Something about the tremulous nature of the druid's voice was deeply unsettling, leeching some of the cozy warmth from the air.

"Harroc? What is the matter?"

Getting to her feet, Mara moved cautiously in what she believed to be Harroc's direction with a cup of tea in one hand. Without any real depth perception, she could only guess where he was, and might very well trip over him. As it happened, she found him with her free hand, which swept through the air searchingly until it brushed his shoulder.

"Are you all right?" she asked, simultaneously crouching down beside him.
Word count: 360
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Galynhun-Khan Tinnudir
Character
Khy'eras' Greatest Detective
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Re: Of Winters and Warm Fires

Post by Galynhun-Khan Tinnudir »

His face turned dark as the druid finished his statement, downward into a snarling scowl. Khan’s thoughts turned to the war for the first time in….a long time. Flashes of fighting, his brethren cut down by Bhelest’s black legions. Months spent on the front lines, standing atop the wall. Like a bolt of lightning, the imagery turned once more to his return home from conflict, to find his home burning brightly. He’d returned from war a victor for all that was good and right, only to be repaid by the debts of those he loved. Gaze fixed firmly on some intangible point a hundred leagues away, unable to break away. Hands wringed one another forcefully, jaw clenched tight.

Yes, what a shock it must have been for one sensitive enough to see the ranger’s broken pathways of essence. It was a terrible thing that had been done to his kind, though there were few who wandered away from their homeland. To awaken one day and be unable to wield simple magic, to have a very part of his core torn asunder…to have to learn how to live again. Being reminded of his age was not a thing of vanity, but a reminder of what had once been and what could never be again. Could one ever truly move on from such a thing?

The healer spoke up, and shuffled toward her now-addled companion, and it was enough to break Khan free of his horrible reverie once more. Pain rolled off his shoulders with a deep sigh, a hand moved to wipe away the tears that had welled in either eye, threatening to roll down his scarred face. ”What can you possibly know of it, young pup?” the baritone rasped harshly at long last, his tone pointed and sharp as the edge of a razor. Yet there was terrible despair in it, for all attuned to hear clearly. Asfaloth rose from her spot, putting herself between the two, keeping her companion behind her and the apparent threat of Harroc ahead. The she-wolf bared her teeth just slightly, and loosed a low growl in warning.

Another deep, rolling sigh passed through the weary ranger, now feeling the entirety of his near four-hundred years of life baring down upon his shoulders. Long life was, to some, a blessing; and to others a curse. The whole of Khy’eras were but mere babes, still suckling on mothers’ breast to Khan. Lacking in wisdom as much as they lacked in experience. Bhelest unleashed a thousand untold horrors in the span of an age, ripples still felt today though the mists had receded and the dead remained so. Ghosts of all he knew remained, haunting the ranger to this day.

Brother had turned on brother, as the Elves parted ways. Again when the dead rose to fight for their master in darkness. What could the beings of this age ever hope to understand, having only heard of such in tales spun in dark corners of inns or around the campfire. Khan’s own breathing became ragged, as sadness threatened to overtake him completely. Twas neither the time nor the place for such, but strong emotion waited for nothing but the most inopportune moment to strike. It had been many a night since the demons had come for him, and Khan wasn’t certain he possessed the strength to fight them tonight.

The she-wolf tensed further, sensing only the pain of her companion, and growled yet again; this time deeper and louder though still a warning. Asfaloth was among those who couldn’t grasp the loss of essence, but her ranger’s sorrow was something palpable. Damn the poor fool who caused it, urging that she had told Harroc of the elf’s age in confidence. Khan’s shoulders slumped, face falling into open palms as she shuddered with shaky breath. A fire raged within him, churning and burning; fueled by and fueling righteous rage. Barely contained, though deep down he knew he had to maintain control, else Asfaloth would strike to tear the druid to pieces.
Word count: 686
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Harroc Crownegrove
Character
Disciples of Balance, Defender of the Woods
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Re: Of Winters and Warm Fires

Post by Harroc Crownegrove »

Harroc flinched and instinctively lifted his chin to expose his throat. The Druid watched the elf go through so many emotions right before him. In his shock he’d clearly spoken out of turn and cut the man deep without thinking. When the she-wolf interceded Harroc held his hands up to attempt to forestall violence. “{No harm. Pain. Speak, care.}” he said in a serious of low whimpers and yips to the wolf. Asfaloth only closed her jaws slightly, still ready to defend her companion and friend.

“I know more than most, but less than I should about the war,” Harroc said when he was certain the wolf wouldn’t go for his throat immediately. “I have lived the battles through the survivors, been imparted the deaths of allies and loved ones through memories. It is intended to make me stronger, to make me not forget. The druids do not consider things like loss or pain anything but tools by which to grow.” As he spoke his voice was toneless, without sadness or anger.

He knew his relived memories were nothing close to the experience of living the real thing, to knowing you’d lost something that was apart of you. He’d tried to imagine his own essence being stripped away and he couldn’t begin to consider what the loss would feel like. “The memories are faint though, impressions and feelings. Nothing like knowing the pain directly. I am sorry-” Harroc frowned and shook himself as the last wisps of memories tried to spring to the forefront of his thought. “I should not have done that, and I cannot remove it from the world.”

He turned to look at Mara, a wane smile on his lips. “I’ve stuck my boot into my mouth again Lightbringer,” he said as he placed his hand on her own to give a reassuring squeeze. “Nothing is a danger to us except my own foolishness.” He looked back to Khan and bowed his head in another apology. “I can offer only the care of the meats and Mara’s delicious tea to lessen my failing. I ask that you reassure Asfaloth that we mean no harm. I do not want to hurt her for being a good friend who does not understand but I cannot endanger my duty to the great beasts.”
Word count: 390
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Mara Whitewood
Character
Disciple of Ristgir
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01
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Re: Of Winters and Warm Fires

Post by Mara Whitewood »

Those who measured their lives in centuries could view the world and its happenings at a distance, as if viewing a tapestry in its entirety. After a certain point, they could see choices and their outcomes as if through a telescope, drawing on the wisdom of ages past. Compared to them, humans like Mara -- who only lived a fraction of the time -- must seem rash in the extreme, with a narrow perception of cause and effect.

Mara detected the deep-seated pain in Khan's voice but could not fathom the cause. The war Harroc spoke of was one she had only ever read about and ink on a page could scarcely do the horrors of large-scale battle any justice. Even if the author managed to capture the desperation, the violence -- the sheer madness -- in a few poignant words, she was far too disconnected from the whole event. As far as human memory was concerned, those wounds had healed long ago.

Asfaloth's low warning growls had filled Mara with uncertainty as readily as they filled the small cave. She was tense, unsure of what to expect, even if Harroc's behavior did not suggest a battle would be on their hands. Nevertheless, she didn't relax until she heard the wry humor in his voice and felt the reassuring hand on hers.

"I trust you," she told him gently. The unspoken implication, of course, that she did not entirely trust their newly-acquired companion.

Mara slid a hand down Harroc's shoulder to his wrist and carefully folded his fingers around the still-warm mug of tea. "You take this," she instructed him, still speaking softly, "and I will get a mug for Galynhun. If, that is, you would still like some."

She spoke aside to Khan at the end. Whether or not he answered in the affirmative, Mara stood and began her cautious shuffling back towards the fire where she had abandoned everything to rush to her friend's aid. As she knelt beside her things again she addressed nobody in particulary when she asked, "Has the sun begun to set yet?"
Word count: 349
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Galynhun-Khan Tinnudir
Character
Khy'eras' Greatest Detective
Level
01
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Re: Of Winters and Warm Fires

Post by Galynhun-Khan Tinnudir »

Khan grumbled as the rage within burned brighter with the shapechanger’s mention of knowing the past through others. The apology was as meaningless as could be, falling upon ears that cared not to hear anything further. That was the rub in getting older; the platitudes got just as old. With a deep breath, the ranger sat up. ”It’s fine,” he rasped, words as cold as the winter chill that brushed past like the kiss of death. A sigh passed, and with a shake of his head Khan met the shapeshifter’s eye. A hand went to Asfaloth’s mane, all five fingers scratching at the scruff. ”The young pup meant no harm,” the ranger rumbled low. The she-wolf relaxed and turned about in a circle no less than three times before settling back down on the cold cave floor, nestling her head in Khan’s lap. The hand that scratched her scruff set about idly stroking her head; immediately did he feel the effects of such and returned to his natural calm state. He chose to ignore the veiled threat to his companion’s well-being, at least for now. Khan had slain greater fools than he for far lesser offenses.

”Yes,” the Ranger responded to both questions Mara posed. He busied his other hand packing a fresh bowl full of the pipeweed in his pack, using the campfire itself to ignite it. ”I will tell you a little of the wars,” the elf resigned, dragging on the long stem of the pipe from the corner of his mouth. ”While you tend to our dinner. Mind that you give Asfaloth hers first.” He took a mighty toke, letting the smoke roll from either nostril as Khan pondered where to begin. He knew he owed no explanation to the young pup, but understanding was one of the few things Khan felt it important to impart on the new generation.

”I was born into a time of conflict. Histoy has come to name it the Age of Dominance. Bhelest and his dark legions had run roughshod over the majority of Khy’eras for well over a hundred years. My people, the Kerasoka, had taken a stand since the inception of the wars. And for our efforts, my kind had the magic ripped from us while our cousins, the Lumeacia went to parts unknown to hide from our retribution for their treachery. I was nearly a hundred when it happened….It was like….” the words trailed off, lingering heavy in the air as the veteran ranger considered his next words carefully. ”It was as if I had awoken from slumber one day and I was without both of my arms….but….worse than that; like I was blinded, too; disconnected from the entirety of our realm…and I wouldn’t wish such a fate upon even Bhelest himself….”

Khan toked upon the pipe, puffing rapidly to keep the cherry burning and held the last draw for several seconds before letting the smoke roll again. ”We fled to Atjeire. In time, those of us who survived the pilgrimage, learned to live without that magical essence. But we were still….gutted…” Eyes darted back and forth as the most unpleasant of his memories surfaced. It was all Khan would say for the time being; perhaps more if the two strangers-with-names came to enjoy and appreciate his company at any real length beyond this quest. The history books had the rest of the story anyway. The elves of Atjeire leaned on the Fae creatures for magical aid, and soon after that Bhelest was defeated and the heavy fog of war was lifted, ushering in a new age of peace and discovery. For over two hundred years, Khan had wandered freely and alone, trying to feel connected to the land in the only manner possible for the essence-less. Both of these youths never had to live in a world where religion and magic weren’t practiced openly; never had to face down their own fallen comrades that had been turned into unholy abominations. For Khan, he couldn’t remember a time in which there was anything but conflict, each day bringing a fresh nightmare to contend with. Even as he returned from war a victor for all that was good and right, there was only more tragedy to welcome him. For many of his kind’s progeny, Atjeire was and forever would be their home among the Fae.

Khan could never return there, nor ever see it as his home. ”…a parent should never have to bury their children,” he muttered quietly under his breath, nearly inaudible.


The sky outside had turned a warm red as the sun sank behind the mountains, a good omen for the weather to come by morning. Clouds glowed orange, dancing about outside the cave and mingling with the red-hot glow of their own campfire light. Darkness would fall before long and soon the druid’s apparent quarry would come to hunt for its own, provided they were still within its grounds.
Word count: 841
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Harroc Crownegrove
Character
Disciples of Balance, Defender of the Woods
Level
01
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21 / 21 MP
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Race: Elemental and Shapeshifter
Class: Druid
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Re: Of Winters and Warm Fires

Post by Harroc Crownegrove »

Harroc could tell the elf was none too pleased, but he wasn’t certain what more he could do. He had at least calmed down Asfaloth, and the she-wolf's comfort seemed to have a similar effect on her companion. He instead looked to Mara, again beside her things and then glanced at the reddining sky. He judged the colors against his own weaker knowledge of the mountains. They were not entirely dissimilar to the towering jungles and he was not completely new to this place, merely it’s winters..

“You could perhaps begin now Mara, though I feel the mountains will take the sun earlier than they should,” he said before glancing back to the sunset and speaking just louder to adjust. “Maybe their own majesty will provide a suitable scenery for your worship,” he smiled at his private joke. He knew nothing could compare to the power and light of the sun, but it was an interesting thought.

At Khan’s gruff dismissal of his misstep, and the offer to tell a story in exchange for work, Harroc rose and moved to collect the remaining meat. He chose a select cut and placed it aside on a section of skin for Asfaloth. Then he moved to collect several firm branches to use as skewers before arranging the remaining pieces of flesh to cook in batches. While the meat sizzled the druid listened intently to Khan.

He was always interested in stories of the past. He was well familiar with the stories of conflict and war. He preferred the more pleasant and hopeful tales, but there was something about the hearing of a story from one who lived it that always held his attention. Harroc was particularly intrigued by the elf’s talk of the loss of his magic. He would wait until the end to share his reasons for the depth of his surprise.

The insistent push of the wolf urged him to tilt his head and strain for even the faintest sounds as the elf finished his story. He heard Khan’s final addition only at the edges of his awareness, and couldn’t have repeated it if asked. Instead he gave himself a small shake, a holdover from the calming swirl of his wolf’s head.

“I believe it may be prudent to inform you that I am not simply a shifter and druid. I am also a product of my father, who I’ve never known, as an elemental. The ground’s essence runs through my veins like blood pours through your own. The loss of magic would be the loss of my life itself. This is why the sudden awareness of the brutality you suffered affects me so.” Harroc spoke with less of an apology and more like he was explaining a difficult martial maneuver.

“The great beast will come soon, I can feel it in the shift of the air. We have perhaps an hour, perhaps less,” he added suddenly, holding his hand out to the air in a relaxed claw to sense essence against his palm. “The entire flow of this place is strange. Or perhaps it is the cold.”
Word count: 527
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Mara Whitewood
Character
Disciple of Ristgir
Level
01
24 / 24 HP
20 / 20 MP
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Race: Human
Class: Cleric
Posts: 24
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Re: Of Winters and Warm Fires

Post by Mara Whitewood »

Just as she thought, Mara could not comprehend the depth of Khan's loss. He tried to describe it in a way they could understand but how could they short of experiencing it firsthand? The raw anguish in his voice was clear enough, informing them in no uncertain terms that the robbery of his gifts did not sit easy with him even centuries later.

Mara paused in the midst of filling a second cup and tried to imagine what it would feel like if the candle flame within her was suddenly and ruthlessly snuffed out. She pictured waking up one morning to the realization that the golden link that bound her to Ristgir had been severed, thereby cutting her off from His divine favor. To be sure the thought was harrowing; she mentally shied away from such a desolate fate, shivering involuntarily as if she could feel the rapidly cooling embers in her soul already.

Had she not been listening so raptly, or if her hearing had been worse, she might have missed the statement muttered almost as an afterthought under his breath. Until that moment she had been kneeling in silence by the fire, cradling the cup of tea in her hands, waiting for the opportunity to give it to him. It didn't seem appropriate to do so following such a recounting, but she didn't know if there would ever be a better one.

Although Mara did not think it would bring him much comfort, she put aside her doubts. Lifting a hand from her lap, she slowly and carefully lifted the elegant visor from her head and set it atop her pack with the rest of her things. She blinked her eyes open just as cautiously, allowing them an opportunity to adjust to the lighting as she stood.

Without a word, she crossed to where Khan sat with Asfaloth. She gave the wolf a wary sidelong look as she approached, and then returned her gaze to the ranger before extending an arm to offer the cup. Seeing him for the first time, she decided that his voice suited him. The dour angle of his brows troubled her for some reason, though she automatically tamped down the impulse to try and smooth it with her fingers, like the wrinkle from cloth.

Mara retreated to the other side of the cave once the drink was dispensed. She forewent getting her own tea in favor of returning to her former seat beside Harroc. Her eyes sketched his profile in silhouette against the darkening sky outside, familiar and yet not. Then she faced forward, closed her eyes, and relaxed back against the cavern wall, ostensibly to commune with Ristgir for that evening's prayers.
Word count: 450
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