Interlude 1

[Joe]

Streko feels just a bit unnerved and unsure of himself in this place. Certainly, he has dealt with magic of many kinds in his life, but this? Never. Seeing ir'Turian bound in the silken cocoon somehow reminds him of...

"...my sister," he says, a bit more loudly than he had hoped. "He still has my sister."

The scene and the feelings engendered by this grove continue to disturb him a great deal. He almost curls in upon himself and stands near Belarin, who he hopes might provide some understanding as to what is happening.

[Darren]

Without looking at him, Kalarian places a calming hand on Streko's shoulder. He smiles as he looks at Alvek in the cocoon, thinking back to the hideous fly-creatures in Shadowcrest Manor. "Very fitting, indeed."

He turns his eyes towards the wood mistress. He resists the urge to ask for Alvek's release to assist in the hunt for Malov, and instead tries to be more diplomatic. "My lady, what are your plans for him?"

[Jeff]

"Has he been forthcoming?"

"Alvek ir'Turian has not been posed any questions," the nymph says, a tiny hint of anger creeping into her voice—but whether it's directed at Belarin for asking the question, or Alvek, he can't tell.

"...my sister," he says, a bit more loudly than he had hoped. "He still has my sister."

"If you are patient for a moment longer, Streko," the fey woman says, looking levely at him for the first time. "Your enemy and his victims will be a source of discussion."

The nymph says nothing else to Kal at the moment. She seems to be waiting far more patiently for whomever, or whatever, else is coming.

Just then a pair of the short, gnomelike men with craggy faces—the redcaps—appear from behind Alvek's cocoon. They push past the strands on either side and move to guard him. Each carries the customary scythe. The blades are curved and serrated, and both are caked with dried blood. Smiles linger on their sharp-toothed mouths, and their mishapen caps are now blood red and shine as if still wet.

"Almost time," one says quietly to the other. Only Belarin cane make out the words, for they are speaking in the Sylvan language. To everyone else, their language is strange-sounding, punctuated almost randomly with strange rolls of the tongue and occasional clicks.

[Ken]

"There's another 'actor' in this drama, my friends," whispers Belarin to the others. "Be patient. This is their court, their etiquette. We'll have our say shortly."

[Darren]

Kalarian nods at Belarin. "We await all you have to say, my lady," he says to the nymph.

[Josh]

Grafth, becoming more at ease in his surroundings despite the appearance of the red caps, waits patiently.

[Jeff]

After a few long moments of utter silence, the haze that lies between each of the fey "doorway" shifts and swirls in place, like reflected moonlight in a pane of glass.

A soft breeze sweeps across the grove, issuing from one of the thresholds on the eastern side. You catch an unearthly fragrance, a floral and verdant scent that tantalizes your senses without overwhelming them. Just then another eladrin steps into view from within the threshold itself. This one is an adult, and exceedingly handsome, dressed in a suit of feyweave garments like Belarin's new clothes, though of lighter colors and a different design.

Standing not far behind the eladrin, further down the hill behind the threshhold, is a monstrous figure twice as tall as a man either wrapped in thick green vegetation or made of it. Black pits serve as eyes. It appearance suggests that it's more plant than animal, and quite dangerous. Grafth has seen some of these creatures a little closer up.

The easy thud of hooves heralds the next arrival. Stepping up from the other slope of the hill and entering the grove from the northmost threshold are a pair of mighty centaurs, one male, one female. Each are barded with leather jerkins partly open at the front, and bandoliers across their chests are filled with darts. They are as lithe as elves but more muscled than the other fey, with swarthy skin and dark coats. The male is the same one who spoke to Belarin earlier.

None of these newcomers speaks yet, though they seem to be appraising your party. The nymph gazes expectedly in the direction of the northeastern threshold, which remains empty still. "When the Emissary arrives," she says, "he will begin."

The entire scene has become more surreal. You are standing in the presence of some innately magical beings.

[Darren]

"We eagerly await the Emissary's arrival, my lady," Kal says. "Then we can express our gratitude for the fine gifts we have been presented, as well."

[Ken]

Belarin is finding it very hard to contain his emotions right now. For several months, he's been toiling in the "mundane" world, following the path that has led him to Shadowcrest Manor. But now, confronted on nearly all sides by the surreal, exotic beauty of the beings of Thelannis, he has difficulty containing a delighted giggle. "I'd never hear the end of it from the redcaps..." he mutters. Instead, he musters a baleful glare and smirk at the redcaps escorting Alvek, intending it as a sort of arrogant acknowledgement -- the only type the redcaps would typically respect.

[Jeff]

A cultured, gentle, and masculine voice speaks, but you don't see the speaker. It seems to be coming from the northeastern threshold, precisely where the the nymph has been looking, but you only see the forest beyond. And you don't understand the language.

Except Belarin, who knows it: "Mistress," the voice says. "Please, let us not keep them waiting. Give them the gifts you have chosen, so as to conclude your immediate business with them."

The others—redcaps, centaurs, and eladrin—stir at the sound of the voice but do not speak.

The nymph nods her head and stands up gracefully. She looks at Belarin first. "Belarin, please, stand by my side. The last gift is for you." The redcaps, who have now been eyeing Belarin, hiss softly. One then smirks and makes a lewd gesture at Belarin, out of the nymph's peripheral vision.

The nymph turns her eyes on Kal and Streko. "First I would speak to the heirs of draconic prophecy. Come forward."

At the same time, one of the redcaps steps out and approaches the nymph as well. In his hand is a bundle of shiny green cloth—rather, a giant leaf serving as a cloth.

[Joe]

Streko bows and looks up at Kal before stepping forward, preferring to do so with his Deneith friend by his side (and a little ahead of him).

"I never thought I'd live to see a Centaur, let alone those redcap beasts. Then again, I never thought I'd live to see denizens of the Plane fo Fire either. Nor my sister again, while I'm thinking of it. Of course, pretty elves are a dime a dozen, but what do I know?"

He grins up at Kal and follows the human's lead.

[Ken]

"I would be honored." Belarin bows slightly at the invitation, turns toward his companions and gives a reassuring wink, then he walks proudly to stand near the nymph's side. Being so close to her beauty sends an electrical thrill through his body, but he tries not to show it. He winks boldly at the redcap who made the lewd gesture as he takes his position.

[Darren]

"Strange days, indeed," Kalarian says quietly in the Halfling tongue. Kal moves forward with Streko and bows once again. "My lady," he says.

[Josh]

Grafth remains where he stands while the others are addressed.

[Jeff]

The nymph receives the leafy bundle from the redcap, who then walks out of the grove behind her. She turns to Streko first.

"You are marked by the Draconic Prophecy*," she says, laying a gentle hand on his now-mailed chest. He feels warmth spread through him, not unlike the sensation of one of his divine prayers, but it could be his imagination as well. "As are all of your kinsman who bear the Mark of Healing. What part the dragonmarked play none can say—not the ruling lords and ladies of Thelanis, nor even the dragons who have studied the Prophecy since their creation."

The redcap who remained fixes Grafth with a stare, perhaps because the shifter stands so patiently. When Grafth notices this, the redcap leers at him and nods slowly. It strikes everyone odd that such crude fey would mingle with such fair fey as the nymph.

"Streko," she says, oblivious to all else. "Will you tell me how and when the Mark of Healing first appeared for you?"

______________________

* A reminder as to what is known about the Draconic Prophecy:

It is an alleged record of things to come that has been playing out since creation. The dragons of Argonnessen observe and record everything from the position of the moons and stars, to the position of the Ring of Siberys to physical manifestations of dragonmarks in the world, all of which they study looking for portents and omens of the future. The prophecy encompasses many many volumes and is said to be as complex and unfathomable as the dragons themselves. A few among the scholarly study excerpts of the massive work, but only the dragons with their incredibly long lifespan have the ability and patience to see the prophecy for what it truly is.

Dragonmarks, which appeared among the common humanoid races only in the last few thousand years, are often taken to be part of the Prophecy. As if each mark were a handful of characters in the vast record, each a piece of an unfathomable puzzle.

It is unknown what the Draconic Prophecy's nature is. Some argue it is a revelation of the end of the world, others of a new beginning.

[Joe]

Streko nods. "As you wish, my lady." He places one hand over his heart, where the dragonmark resides. The other hand clasps Olladra's holy symbol, ever-presently near the design on his chest.

"It was over twenty years ago, my lady. I was a wee lad of ten years when my sister, Varna, decided to run away. She was older than I by a good fifteen years, mind, and quite a cutpurse, much to my parent's horror. They had an argument and she left. In my naive bravado, I decided that I would go in search of her. Dark Six be damned, but it seems, at times, as if that's all I've been doing with my life.

"In any event, I came across two bandits attempting to rob and goodness knows what else to a young human girl, perhaps in her late teenaged years by that race's standards. I was able to chase of one of them off with a nasty cut of my sickle. The other, however, pierced my chest with his blade and left me for dead.

"That is when Olladra came to me. She, and the girl, sat on either side of me and kept me from dying. I could feel their presence there, comforting me. It was at that moment that I felt the burning, itching sensation of the dragonmark form over the wound and, as quickly as it came, it was gone, as was Olladra and the wound itself. I was healed and the girl, grateful as she was, and worried I might relapse, walked with me, as we were heading toward the same destination.

"To make a long story short, she brought me to House Jorasco and it was their kindness that allowed me to bring my parents and siblings to Sharn as well, as nobility, rather than the hard-working peasants desperately attempting to feed our brood day in and day out that I grew up with.

"To this day, I continue searching for Varna, who was last seen in the hands of Malov, the evil being who has darkened your magnificent forests and the hearts of the victims he has controlled, including Alvek there, and his own sister. I have vowed to Olladra that I will destroy this being and his minions of fire or die in the attempt. I intend to keep that vow.

"My lady."

He steps back next to Kal and takes a deep breath, as if in telling the story, he has grown suddenly winded.

[Jeff]

The nymph smiles as Streko speaks, listening intently. When he refers to his sickle in his story, her eyes briefly flash up toward the rest of the group. Then she places her attention back on Streko.

Meanwhile as the halfling continues his tale, the redcap still standing beside Alvek makes a show of rolling his eyes.

When Streko finishes, the nymph kneels down and looks him in the eye. "So do the threads of prophecy unwind unpredictably, Streko. When the Emissary is here, he may speak more of your sister. Many things are known to him. And there is more to your story—and hers."

With that, she stands, unwraps the gigantic leaf bundle in her arms, and holds out a gleaming sickle. The blade is curved more spherical than most, and its overlong handle is carved of both metal and ivory.

"This is the Crescent of Therendor*, falciform of the Healer's Moon."

She holds the sickled straight above Streko's head. Looking up, he sees behind it the pale grey sliver of Therendor hanging in the night sky, narrower but closer than the now-full Dravago. "It was made by your own kind, Talentan smiths who came to my homeland and dallied there, some time ago when Thelanis was much closer to the moon. When Thereondor is waxing in your sky, the Crescent will will shine brighter for it. This I give to you, Streko, for your vows and your courage."

Smiling, the nymph holds out the razor-sharp sickle for Streko to take.

______________________________

* Therendor, The Healer's Moon
Associated Dragonmark: Healing

Therendor is the "brother moon" of Barrakas, sharing a similar but narrower orbit with the Lantern Moon. Some cultures maintain that natural medicines concocted when Therendor is full and Barrakas is new are more potent than normal. Supersticions suppose that those born in the month of Therendor are thought to be gentle and empathetic; priests, mediators, and healers often have Therendor as their ascendant moon.

[Joe]

Streko fights off the tears that instantly spill from his eyes. "It's beautiful, my lady," he whispers. He takes the item and carresses it gently. "The most beautiful blade I have ever seen. I am honored."

Streko bows deeply and steps back, never letting go of his new weapon, wondering how Malov's head might glare at it once it has been removed from his body by the razor-sharp edge.

He banishes such thoughts from his mind. This was a gift given in gratitude. He would not dishonor these wonderful elves or their friends with thoughts of anger and rage...which reminded him that he really needed to meditate at some point.

"So many things to do, so little time to do them," he mutters softly once he has stepped back to his place next to Kalarian.

[Jeff]

When Streko has stepped back, the nymph lifts her eyes to Kal. "All of the dragonmarked have a place we cannot see in your world to be, but some are closer to the Prophecy, and to dragons, than others." There is a knowing tone in her voice.

"Lord Kalarian," she says, "Will you tell me of your mark? I know of your present, but not of your past."

[Darren]

"There is little to tell, my lady," Kal says, stepping forward and leaning easily against his Halfling weapon. "There is no great tale to it's manifestation. It was simply not there one day, and there the next, proof that I was meant for greater things than anyone had expected of me." Kalarian's tone sours somewhat in speaking of the past. Kal pauses for a moment as he thinks back. "It was on the Plains where my development really began in earnest. My time during the War, my experiences with the Halfling people...these are the things that shaped me. The manifestation of my 'mark only helped prove to the world what I already knew about myself."

[Jeff]

"Such self-assurance alone will not see you to these greater things," the nymph replies to Kal with a gentle smile. "What do you know about yourself?"

[Darren]

Kal seems unperturbed by the nymph's questioning. "I know that I have been granted power, and that there are many who underestimate me."

[Jeff]

"One day your reticence may endanger you," the nymph says at Kal's words. "But not here."

Her eyes seem to shine within the dark holes of her mask, and they focus on the scythe-like sharash blade Kal holds like a staff. "It is not by chance that the gifts I am bestowing upon you today are weapons. By doing what I have asked you to do"—her eyes flick briefly to Alvek—"you have proven that the threat of death, or worse, does not deter you. You will raise your weapons out of need...a trait common among your races." The nymph pauses for a moment, a sadness in the air.

"You carry a weapon I know to be specially crafted for your size." She reaches out a delicate finger and taps the side of the sharash blade. As she does, Kal notices that a shallow, but wide groove has been carved into the steel—knowing his weapon so well, he knows this filigree is new: tiny Sylvan sigils have been etched into the groove. Kal knows it must have been added while he slept, but the intricacy in which it was made suggests a few days of careful, steady work. Since waking, he failed to notice it.

"This weapon is not of human make, but of halfling, and that is revealing about you, Lord Kalarian. You consider yourself to be...great. Will you always champion the small?" Without waiting for an answer, she continues. "Your weapon now bears the blessing of the Queen's Court, and it will strike the deadlier for it. Use it well."

[Darren]

"What's past is past, my lady. It is what lies before us that matters." Kalarian bows again. "Thank you for your gift. I am sure the Halfling artisan who crafted this weapon for me would be honored to know that it has been touched by your magnificence."

[Jeff]

"I am not a prophetess," the nymph says to Kal, "But I believe you have started down a path of importance to your world. Some may join you there, Kalarian, and some who walk with you will stray from it before the end. But you must see it through, for you were chosen when this man's servant"—a quick glance to Alvek again—"betrayed him and sought the help of a stranger."

"You, and those allies who will stay with you," she continues, then turns her masked face toward Grafth. "Those who have been entrusted with great responsibilities."

"Ranger of the Talenta Plains, will you come forward and tell me why you are here?"

[Josh]

"A fair question, my lady," the shifter says, stepping forward, "and one I have asked myself more than once during this affair.

"My way of life has always been simple. I hold no allegiance to any nation, race, or deity... I am dedicated to my self. My word. I was drawn into this circumstance by chance— making a delivery to the city of Passage. What should have been a simple task became quite arduous as my traveling companions and I were thrown into a mystery much larger than anything I ever hoped to be involved in. My chapter could easily have ended for me when my delivery was finally made. I kept my word to my client, and fulfilled that promise.

"But when I made my delivery, I was asked to take on another task... to find the captain Ralsor and enlist his aid. Again, I kept my word. And again, we were met with danger."

Grafth pauses, looking down at his hands. For a moment, he seems lost in memory. Pacing a few steps, he continues, "During the Last War I fought only to keep the battle away from my homeland... away from those who could not defend themselves against the folly of war. I find... that although I have given no one my word that I will fight this battle against Malov, I feel a desire to protect my world against him. It is similar to what I felt during the war.

"It would be against my nature to allow Malov's plan to come to fruition. It surpasses a need to fight against him for others. It is something I must do for myself."

[Jeff]

The nymph nods her head at Grafth's words. "You were asked to take on a task," she repeats. "How similar your position is to mine, perhaps, Grafth. The true gravity of such decisions lies in who does the asking. You may wish to think on that."

Without saying any more about that, she reaches out and points at the handaxe Grafth wears at his belt. "Your weapon, too, has been touched by the blessings of my Queen's court, marked with the ferocity of the Powries of Dusk."

Grafth looks down, now in better light, and confirms that his weapon has been altered slightly, as he suspected. Three red slashes, resembling claw marks, have been etched into the metal axehead on both sides of the blade. Additionally, the wooden haft has been reinforced in three places with metal bands.

[Josh]

"Sound advice. I shall take your words— and your gift— to heart."

[Jeff]

"Charis ir'Vanatar," the nymph says, turning at last to the Thrane among your party. Her dulcet voice grows softer. "You are a woman among violent men. You did not choose to oppose these enemies, but have found yourself set against them just the same. Will you say what brought you here?"

Charis shrugs awkwardly, aware of the nymph's gaze and the scrutiny of the mixed fey company all around. "There's not much to say, and not much that I know." The Thrane woman's slightly deeper voice is strangely appealing, complimenting rather than contrasting to the nymph's voice, stronger in tone but less certain of itself in present company. "I was just doing a favor for my grandmother and...a friend of the family. Reconnaissace, you could say. To find someone in the Aundairian city of Fairhaven. I was...caught, and knocked out cold...and ended up far from the city. I'm here because I was helping a friend."

The nymph's eyes flash over to Grafth and linger there for a moment.

Charis continues, "If helping him brought me against this wizard Malov, then yes, I will oppose him. The enemy of my friend is my enemy. And if he means to hurt the Five Nations, and my country, then I will see him dead. More than that...the people he's already hurt at Shadowcrest...he will die for that."

Charis's face has grown dark. Then she looks at Kal and Streko, then to Grafth, eyeing their weapons. Her expression of hate vanishes, and now she smirks. "So can I get a fancy new rapier?" She tapes the hilt of her already elegant weapon. "Or is it already blessed to slay all enemies of the fey?"

"No," the nymph says with a coy smile. "You are an artful daughter of royal blood." The fey woman gestures toward Kal and Streko. "Even the dragonmarked are not nobility in the truest sense; theirs is a lineage of prophecy, not highborn blood. For you, Charis, I have something appropriate to your station."

The nymph steps forward, then lifts her hands to her head. With a graceful, delicate gesture, she draws the mask from her face. She allows her long dark hair to fall forward, framing her perfect face.

With the mask thus removed, the nymph seems firmly rooted in the world of the imagined, not the real. She stands as a vision of the natural world as it was meant to be, or as it can only be dreamed of. It has been said by sages that Thelanis, the Faerie Court, is a plane that represents imagination itself, that which the mortal world can only conceive of but not make manifest. This creature seems aptly reprentative of that notion. Her visage is fair, striking, almost deadly and wonderful at the same time. Her beauty would be difficult to desribe, but you can well imagine human poets trying and failing to put words to it. Even as you look upon her face now you know with great certainly how difficult it will be to recall it later. Instead it will linger between the real and the imagined. Belarin knows that nymphs can use their own beauty as a weapon, but this one is holding that power in check now.

The nymph holds out the mask to Charis. "This was carried into the Whisper Woods long ago by a woman of noble lineage. She fell in love with a fossegrim—a masculine spirit of water—and chose never to leave the forest again. So did this mask, this affectation of your nations, come into my possession. It has brought me a talent in communicating with your kind, Charis, but it does not belong to one such as me. I do not wish the affairs of your world to trouble me much longer. I give this to you."

Charis knows instinctively that there is magic contained in the black leather mask, that a magewright, wizard, or artificer must have had a hand in its making. For what purpose, she only guess for now.

"Thank you," Charis says, but her breath fails her, and her words are little more than a whisper. She takes the mask with a slight bow and steps away, turning to examine it and perhaps just as eagerly to turn her eyes from the nymph.

The nymph turns, then, to look upon Belarin who has stood—heart-racing against his wil—beside her. Her face is all that he can see for a moment.

"Belarin Malizia, before I ask anything of you, is there anything you wish to say?"

[Ken]

Momentarily flustered, Belarin manages to say, "My beautiful lady, were I the mere man I was the day before a nymph beckoned to me and I raised my hand in defense of a powrie, my only reponse would be something like ... homina homina." He smiles as he absently fingers the cord around his neck, from which clearly hangs a large tooth. "Fortunately, I've since been gifted with a tongue to delight my friends and lash my foes.

"I have been tasked to find and punish those responsible for the attacks against the fey," he continues with more seriousness. "And that task is not complete, not as long as Malov is still planning deviltry. During my training, I somehow knew -- without being told -- that there would be sacrifice, a price I'd have to pay for my new, wonderful life. I accept that with joy and with pride. And so here I remain, ready to make that sacrifice and to be your scout and your shield against this world's dangers...," his eyes lower, unable to meet her gaze any longer, "...for as long as you need it." He bows his head.