It was just as any other morning, her route outside of Sarshel on the very borders of the wilderness quite typical. Despite that, she enjoyed the walks that cut through fields, along crumbling walls and still frozen ponds. Her loop always crossed the Royal Road, then split eastward back toward the Coast Trail making note of scratch posts used by bears, recent nests built in the anticipation of spring, or tracks left behind during the night.
The approaching treeline remained the same, its level ring of deer having chewed off branch and leaf from the previous year looked as it always did.
And then her normal morning routine came to a sudden gasp and stop. Silence gripped the region, white snow blanketing the open meadows ahead right before a rocky ridge. There, standing alone was a tree that bore the wounds of a thousand slashes. It glistened red. A bush shifted then, and rose, shambling near the tree, embracing two smaller saplings as if they were its own.
Snow crunched beneath each stretch of her legs, before she kicked one forward and slid down the side of a snow covered hill, rolling as the Royal Road came into view. Her pace quickened then, a gloved hand holding the bottom of the spear strapped to her back as she raced toward Sarshel.
Such an early riser was she, it would be hard to find anyone at this hour, but she did!
Skidding to a stop and sliding on her rump from the force of keeping herself from running into Gwendolynn, the excited and exhausted Faile waved her arms, spreading them wide as she told her sister of what it was she saw, and where it was she saw it. Panic. Pain and fear all bundled into one. The energy skipped over to her sister Aleira then as she was spotted walking down the street, and the same tale was shared.
Faile lead her sisters through the fields, past the crumbling walls and still frozen ponds. Crossed onto the Royal Road and then split eastward back toward the Coast Trail via the same very treeline. Pointing her spear forward toward the ridge, did she show the others this very tree.
Three sisters stepped forward then, approaching the ridge at a careful pace. The tree glistened, weeping along its shell of wounded bark, and as they drew closer, scattered items lay near its roots. The large bush shook its dry leaves, and the two smaller saplings raised their twig-like arms upward to the snow-filled sky!
Black smoke curled from their skin as lightning slammed into all three sisters filling the air with the rot of burnt flesh! Caught out in the open of the meadow, the three charged the ridge to engage in a fierce battle against the darkened touch of nature itself! Gwendolynn's blade burst into flame on a barking command as a second crack of thunder rumbled above, followed by another lash of lightning down upon the already burnt trio!
Aleira flashed arrow after arrow while Faile slashed and thrust her spear, but despite their training, the nimble sapling easily avoided both attacks.
By the end of the battle, the three sisters stood upon the ridge catching their breath. Two saplings and a bush cut down for firewood, but it was the tree that stood alone which caught their focus. Faile sealed four items that lay around the base of the tree's trunk into a wooden container, while Aleira found parts of the bush strewn about on the field of battle. Uncertain of how to cleanse a tree, and seeing it done before to other cursed places, Faile dumped a bottle of holy water upon the roots and base of the trunk, washing away the blood.
Even as the three sisters departed did the surrounding trees shake out barbed vines, lashing twigs, roosting blood sucking stirges and a very unnatural looking spider in an attempt to keep them from leaving.
These were not stray cats that needed care, or tracking animals through the wild. It was well beyond the natural in which Faile could understand. The three sisters agreed on their way back to Sarshel that the touch of a Druid may very well be required.
The Wound of a Thousand Slashes
Re: The Wound of a Thousand Slashes
A second foray was made into that cursed grove a day or so following Faile's discovery. This time the two woodswomen were accompanied, not by Gwendolynn Highblade but by an elven druid relatively new to the lands around Sarshel. His name hard for Aleira to commit to memory.
Before they pressed forth to show him the horror of the tree that had stood at the centre of foul ritual, they let him bear witness to the remains of those shambling vines as well as the offerings that had been put in a semi-circle around the base of the lashed and tainted tree. He could make no judgement yet, divine no thoughts as to their purpose. But he assured them no less that he wouldn't relent before he knew just who or what had been responsible. After the druid had made his investigations, seen his fill of the foulness that still clung to that once proud specimen the trio carried on, towards the camp that bandits had previously made their home. Gone were oxens and carts, mayhaps the highwaymen had managed to escape? Or perhaps their beasts of burden had been swallowed by the dread of nature's corruption. Whatever the case, they peeked into the tent at the center of the camp. Only to be turned away by some frightful roar. A werebeast, the druid assured them; one they could not hope to best.
Yet another day passed, and the knowledge of what had transpired in Folly's forest still weighed on Aleira. Perhaps it would always? It was a dreadful thing to see the wilds twisted and turned that day, and to see that beast. It was a dread that rivalled the one that echoed through Sarshel, even all of Impiltur on that fateful day, the seventh of Mirtul. A third foray was soon arranged, this time the ranger found herself in the stalwart presence of the hedge-knight Merney Valroc and the arcanist Gwendolynn Highblade. Rigorous preparations were made, the arcanist uttering word of power after word of power to enhance the trio's abilities in combat. But, as they pressed through the opening in the tent, the hedgeknight ended the struggle with a singular strike of his axe; the sizeable head of the beast severed from it's twisted body. The silence that followed in the wake of that short-lived struggle filled Aleira with hope, relief. For now, the corruption in Folly's forest had been rooted out. What remained now was a struggle less obvious, one not of arms but of knowledge and wit. For whoever was responsible, they should be brought to answer for what they had made the land endure.
Before they pressed forth to show him the horror of the tree that had stood at the centre of foul ritual, they let him bear witness to the remains of those shambling vines as well as the offerings that had been put in a semi-circle around the base of the lashed and tainted tree. He could make no judgement yet, divine no thoughts as to their purpose. But he assured them no less that he wouldn't relent before he knew just who or what had been responsible. After the druid had made his investigations, seen his fill of the foulness that still clung to that once proud specimen the trio carried on, towards the camp that bandits had previously made their home. Gone were oxens and carts, mayhaps the highwaymen had managed to escape? Or perhaps their beasts of burden had been swallowed by the dread of nature's corruption. Whatever the case, they peeked into the tent at the center of the camp. Only to be turned away by some frightful roar. A werebeast, the druid assured them; one they could not hope to best.
Yet another day passed, and the knowledge of what had transpired in Folly's forest still weighed on Aleira. Perhaps it would always? It was a dreadful thing to see the wilds twisted and turned that day, and to see that beast. It was a dread that rivalled the one that echoed through Sarshel, even all of Impiltur on that fateful day, the seventh of Mirtul. A third foray was soon arranged, this time the ranger found herself in the stalwart presence of the hedge-knight Merney Valroc and the arcanist Gwendolynn Highblade. Rigorous preparations were made, the arcanist uttering word of power after word of power to enhance the trio's abilities in combat. But, as they pressed through the opening in the tent, the hedgeknight ended the struggle with a singular strike of his axe; the sizeable head of the beast severed from it's twisted body. The silence that followed in the wake of that short-lived struggle filled Aleira with hope, relief. For now, the corruption in Folly's forest had been rooted out. What remained now was a struggle less obvious, one not of arms but of knowledge and wit. For whoever was responsible, they should be brought to answer for what they had made the land endure.
Re: The Wound of a Thousand Slashes
The tranquility of the forests had been disrupted. It was a routine for Thaelrin, to maneuver to a high point in the woods, feel the ebb and flow of the land, and determine where it needed his aid the most. There was no end to disturbances in the wake of the demonic invasion, to the point where he had precious little time for respite, but the routine today was different.
The Balance had not only been tipped, but also twisted and torn asunder into something unrecogniseable. Was it the malign influence of the Beastlord that saw the land lash out in anger and desperation, given the presence of the Werebear, or something else altogether; a lingering presence of evil that he had not yet felt? He could not help but speculate as he took his time to study the offerings, the shambler vines, as well as the suffering land, and so it had to be only a matter of time before a sign, some manner of clue, presented itself.
The land's wrath was evident wherever one treaded in the thicket, and though the bloodied tree that sat upon the cliff was the most foreboding and prominent of ill omens, the countless gargantuan, thorny roots sprouting outward from the soil concerned the elf in equal measure. Ever spreading and persistent, their presence could have held more meaning than simple retaliation. Were they brought to life with more than one purpose? Was it to ensure the vines, roots of old and wildlife spreaded corruption and destruction in their wake, or was it simply an unfortunate by-product of a failed defense? Had fellow fey willingly performed the foul ritual that cast the land into suffering? He knew not for certain, and dwelling on those unnerving thoughts was pointless whether or not the truth of the matter ascertained itself.
Even if there was nothing to learn, Thaelrin took care to the land as it always did of him. His days were spent tending to Folly's Forest with the Great Mother's blessing whenever his study of the site came to an end or proved too fruitless to continue, the tree especially deserving of whatever soothing his mending touch and knowledge could provide, meagre or otherwise.
The Balance had not only been tipped, but also twisted and torn asunder into something unrecogniseable. Was it the malign influence of the Beastlord that saw the land lash out in anger and desperation, given the presence of the Werebear, or something else altogether; a lingering presence of evil that he had not yet felt? He could not help but speculate as he took his time to study the offerings, the shambler vines, as well as the suffering land, and so it had to be only a matter of time before a sign, some manner of clue, presented itself.
The land's wrath was evident wherever one treaded in the thicket, and though the bloodied tree that sat upon the cliff was the most foreboding and prominent of ill omens, the countless gargantuan, thorny roots sprouting outward from the soil concerned the elf in equal measure. Ever spreading and persistent, their presence could have held more meaning than simple retaliation. Were they brought to life with more than one purpose? Was it to ensure the vines, roots of old and wildlife spreaded corruption and destruction in their wake, or was it simply an unfortunate by-product of a failed defense? Had fellow fey willingly performed the foul ritual that cast the land into suffering? He knew not for certain, and dwelling on those unnerving thoughts was pointless whether or not the truth of the matter ascertained itself.
Even if there was nothing to learn, Thaelrin took care to the land as it always did of him. His days were spent tending to Folly's Forest with the Great Mother's blessing whenever his study of the site came to an end or proved too fruitless to continue, the tree especially deserving of whatever soothing his mending touch and knowledge could provide, meagre or otherwise.
Re: The Wound of a Thousand Slashes
Not hearing any word for many weeks regarding the strange tree they had come across, Faile burns the last remains she had been holding on to one evening while out camping.
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