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Logs

A spirit in the woods

Tags: Brev,  Elf,  Nob

Short Summary: It's a fine moonlit night for hunting, but Brev finds something other than deer
Date (real-life): 2010-03-16
Scene Location: The Chetwood
Date (in-game): June 3049
Time of Day: Night
Weather: Clear (moonlit)
The Chetwood

The trees of the Chetwood stand like silent guardians of the forest. The undergrowth that flourishes between the trunks adds an eerie wall against any intrusion into the dark heart of the wood. Many of the trees here are smaller in stature than their brethren further into the forest, though, perhaps a sign that logging once took place here. Light from the waxing gibbous moon filters down through the sparse canopy, and it is possible to make out a few details of your surroundings. Tree trunks are visible, their thin shadows giving the area a somewhat erie feel. The underbrush that grows between the dark trunks is merely a shadow that obscures any path. Every so often, an owl's hooting can be heard in the darkness. The night is alive with the sounds of insects, and all around, fireflies blink in the darkness. There is a broken branch in the shrubs by the eastern path.

Obvious exits:
North, East, and South

================================== Bree Time ==================================
Real time: Tue Mar 16 15:22:50 2010
Bree time: Early Night <22:08:30> on Sterday of Summer - June 11,1449
Moon Phase: Last Quarter Moon

Breelands Weather
The early night summer air is very hot and dry around you. The night sky is cloud-filled and gloomy. The moon is above the horizon and in its last quarter phase.
===============================================================================

[Nob(#16122)] It's full night, though not late - the moon is just above the horizon, and light filters through the trees. This path that leads towards Staddle, and eventually forks towards Combe and Archet, is wide and easily followed, though brush grows between the trees on either side.

Just within the shadow of one - an oak by the silhouette of its branches against the moonlight - stands a doe with twin fawns. Her eyes glimmer in the night, and her ears twitch back and forth. Beyond them is a place where the trees must have left a small clearing, for the silvery-white light is brighter, lining branches and leaves, bark and moss, and leaving no shadows.

There is movement in the shadows, a shifting within the web of light and dark spun by the moon and the tree branches. Brev keeps to the shelter of the trees, choosing his path carefully - in his hand a hunting spear. At the sight of the deer, he pauses, shifting his weight slightly. Is he planning to try for a cast, or does he merely intend to observe? That will never be known - his left leg, though healed, is still inclined to be stiff, and as he eases it his foot comes down on a twig with an audible *crack*.

[Nob(#16122)] Three head turn in unison and the deer are gone, bounding across the path and into the darkness on the other side. From behind Brev, from the spot of brighter light, comes a silvery voice - it speaks in Common, but perhaps the music of the words is such that the meanings are hard to focus on. What it says is, "Humans. Always so clumsy."

Brev's gaze follows the deer as they take flight; at the voice from behind, though, he stiffens. His hand slides along the spear-shaft so that rather than being held loosely it is gripped firmly, and swivels toward the voice. "But they have a sting, for all that." There is an edge to his voice, and the planes of his face are hard, tense. "Those who pass judgement should remember it. Who speaks?" The last two word rise in challenge.

[Nob(#16122)] The light flickers with movement; someone stands within it, a pale fine-edged face, milk-colored hair. "What," he - she - it wonders, "Has a sting to do with grace or care?" The elf gestures to where the doe had once stood. "For need, I will allow. Had you need? But it gave you no aid."

Brev stares toward the light, then raises his left hand to shield his eyes - his right still curls around the spear. His jaw sets. "You speak in riddles. Ask in plain speech if you wish an answer." The swarthy features are clouded by suspicion, and his stance is rigid.

[Nob(#16122)] The elf steps forward a little, and the light dims. Perhaps it is a thin cloud that has covered the face of the moon, though his (her) hair yet seems to glow faintly. "Are the second-born so fallen that they have no wits in these days, then? It was not always thus... " This is said in a musing tone, then the words become slower, more distinct, though no less musical. "You bear a weapon, sought you those aras of need? You are ... hungered?"

"Yes," answers Brev curtly. The other being's step forward is matched on his part by a slow, careful step back. He does not turn his face away, but the perceptive might note that he is not looking this 'other' quite in the eye; rather his gaze is fixed on a point past the being's shoulder. "But I'd not hunt a doe with young, less I had to - else next year there's no deer left to hunt." He gives a thin smile. "And being born first isn't always an advantage. Depends if it's the right kind of birth, eh?" His voice takes a half-mocking tone, though it is unclear whether it's directed at the creature of light or himself. He eases back a second step ...

[Nob(#16122)] There is - something. A sound. Laughter perhaps, but it is not mocking; rather there is a faint note of approval perhaps. Praise. "It is well," says the elf. "For I could not have allowed you to take that one. But.." A movement of one shoulder that may be a shrug - the light has dimmed still further, and now the one who stands there looks no brighter than any man might, standing in an open place beneath the starlight. The long slender fingers gesture again, pointing this time off to Brev's left. "Beyond, you will find one whose leg is injured." There is a swift gleaming smile and silky-smooth words, "The advantage surely is yours in warning those you seek."

Brev frowns at that response, and his cheek starts to twitch slightly. "Why?" He does not follow the direction of that pointing finger; rather his gaze seeks out the trunks beyond which the doe and her fawns had disappeared. "Is-" The words fumble to a halt, and he tries again. "Do your kind run beneath the skins of deer?" The fear may not echo in his voice, but it is visible through the shadow in his eyes and the tight tension-lines around them. "I /could/ hunt yonder," a jerk of the head, though still he does not look, "but I prefer to bring down beast and not-" Here he mutters a single word in a guttural tongue that is not Common; there is a long pause before he finds and offers an equivalent, "spirit."

[Nob(#16122)] The elf seems to blink, eyebrows raising. Then a shake of the head, and more laughter. "It is not so. We hold to our own form, even as you keep to yours. No, you will find naught but - deer, is it?" A single fluid motion and the elf is squatted down, leaning against the bole of the tree and looking up. "What do you fear?" he asks curiously, spreading wide hands. "As you see, I have no weapon drawn against you."

"Deer," Brev confirms, the twitching of his cheek, at least, ceasing, although his stance is still tense. The fact that the elf - if such it is - is now looking up at him does little to dispel his unease. "I fear what I can't see," comes the gruff response. "The things that a keen spear or a hidden dagger can't stop. My thoughts are my own and I prefer to keep it that way."

As if in proof of that, his head is now angled so that amber eyes focus on a point higher up the tree-bole.

[Nob(#16122)] A flicker of scornful fingers. "What desire would I have for your thought? I have plenty and enough of my own." There is a strange edge to those words, a darker music than before, and the elf's eyes darken like velvet when the light is taken off it.

Perhaps that darkness is heard, for Brev's jaw sets again. "That's as well, for some I'm not minded to share." He reaches out a booted foot as though to take one more step back - almost, he does, but something halts him. Curiosity, perhaps, or even, just maybe, a seeking for understanding. "What do you desire, then?" The words are softly spoken, without the earlier edge.

[Nob(#16122)] The elf has looked away at Brev's motion, and he looks back after a minute, as if surprised the man is still there. "Desire," he repeats - for somehow, it has become clear that it is male - and looks away again. The fine bones of his face seem once again to almost glow with a faint starry light. He is silent for a long time, and when it almost seems he will not answer, the quiet voice, music dampened to almost nothing, says, "I have longed to see the West for years beyond your reckoning, human. Yet here I remain, in this land of Shadow..." The face turns towards Brev, and it is remote, inhuman. "I desire rest."

Brev waits, silence enfolding him. Does he regret his impulse? When the words come his brows furrow. West? Unbidden his eyes look in that direction, yet finds naught but trees. "Shadow," he repeats, hoarsely, feeling that unearthly gaze on him even if he will not meet it. "These days, all lands are shadowed. Seems it's past lifting." There is regret in the statement. "And there's little enough peace for any." A moment's silence then he states roughly, clearing his throat, "If it's rest you seek, I'll detain you no further." He half-turns; no more backsteps.

[Nob(#16122)] Elven eyes watch his gaze turn, and the other shakes his head. "You cannot see from here," he says, not unkindly. "To sail the unbent seas is not given to men." Then he stands once more, as graceful and liquid as if he had no bones, and rose from the ground by force of will alone. Suddenly the light - can it be the moon? But what else would it be? - white and pure, clean of all shadows, spills out into the small clearing again. "Not all is dark," the elf's voice says sternly, "Nor is hope yet gone." He is standing, leaning slightly against the tree, watching Brev intently. "You need not go, it is not rest of body that I speak of; your presence disturbs me not."

Brev shivers slightly at those first half-understood words, and as the light goes he freezes, much as a deer might in that instant of sensing the hunter's spear. "Hope may not be gone, but I've found precious little of it." A bitterness creeps into his tone, and he shakes his head as though to clear it. "I need to hunt. There's little enough time left before moonset." The words, simple as they are, say nothing of the need to be away from things otherworldly.

[Nob(#16122)] A nod. "Go then," the elf says, shutting his eyes. "They will not have gone far." Without looking again, he adds, "Darkness cannot prevail, as long as it is not given home in your heart." And one final phrase, or is it a single word, in elven. It sounds like a ripple of water, clear over clean stones.

When those first words are spoken, almost as benediction, Brev turns. Thus it is that his face is set away from the other when a shadow passes over it at that mention of the heart. He says naught, merely tightens his jaw and walks on. At that final, musical phrase, he halts. "Farewell," he offers by way of response, without looking back, and resumes his careful tread.

Soon he is disappearing between the tree boles. He bends, once, to observe the ground, then straightens and nods. "Now to see whose leg gives out first," he murmurs wryly to himself as he takes up the trail, setting things half-glimpsed and far less than half-understood aside in favour of the hunt ...




Date added: 2010-03-17 18:17:38    Hits: 102
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