RP:The Last of the Wood Elves

Part of the Surface Tension Arc

Synopsis: Daring to venture once more into Sage, Skylei happens upon Rhosorien, one of very few wood elves who remained within Sage following the exile of the vast majority. With the constant fear of the invaders lingering in the background, the two discuss the current state of affairs and the potential, though highly unlikely, future reunification of the elven race.

Sage Forest Bell

Rhosorien is inspecting the bell, very meticulously. Narrowed eyes of forest-green scrutinise every inch of it with monk-like focus, fingers gliding smoothly over its surface as the ranger searches for any crack or split or new sign of age and wear. “Sturdy old thing,” he murmurs to himself, then pauses as he spots a speck travelling slowly along the bell's lower rim. Almost with caution he slowly crouches to examine it closely, his brows furrowing in disdain as he comes to realise what the speck is: a Xalious termite. “You are far from home,” the elf says to the insect, his forefinger and thumb carefully extending to pinch the bug around its thorax, and pry it from the bell. “A pity, for you are an astounding creature,” Rhosorien watches the termite crawl in a panic around his hand, “alas... Invaders must be destroyed. It is a sentiment I'm sure your kind would share.” He then turns towards a nearby branch, where a blue-tit is perched watching the elf with interest, and flicks the termite from the back of his hand with the middle-finger of his other. He watches the bright little bird swoop down, and assumes the termite's death in its stomach.

For an exile, Skylei sure seems to spend a great deal of time in Sage. Today the half-elf, wrapped in the thick green weave of a heat reflecting cloak (always fearful of the approach of drow), has climbed into one of the taller trees and is attempting to harvest some of the moss than grows on the thick upper trunk of the trees in Sage. Under normal circumstances, Skylei teds not to stray into the forest but of late it is becoming an increasing necessity. The harvest not a task she undertakes willingly, indeed, this harvest is merely means to end; an end that she hopes will be satisfying enough to make worth the tedious and dangerous nature of the work. Footsteps, breathing and the muffled sound of a voice. Skylei freezes in her task, wrapping the cloak tighter round her form and hoping the gentle breeze and the sound of leaves being tossed will muffle and mask the sounds of her presence. She’s not far south of the bell, merely metres, and thus, although she does not hear his murmur to the bell, Sky is aware of the conversation his has with the termite. What surprises her is that the man holds an accent that is distinctly not drow. Indeed, Skylei believes the man to be of her kin. A traitor in cahoots with the drow bastards? Or one who could not bear to fully leave the forest from which the wood elves are exiled? She can be sure of neither, but her instinct forces her to descend to the ground with a gentle thump, an arm reaching for her bow as she does. Whoever the man is will have heard her landing.

Rhosorien's hand finds his sheathed dagger faster than it would pull his bow off of his back, but the blade is not drawn. Instead his hand remains upon the handle, some way up his back where the sheath is hidden beneath his quiver of arrows, and Rhosorien creeps slowly towards the edge of the bell-platform upon which he is perched. The Drow are a concern of his too, and he is wary of calling out to the figure below, lest a fight to the death be his reward for curiosity. Whomever it is wears a piwafwi, and this may have damned Skylei to attempted-surprise-attack from above – were it not for her dark hair, and a fleeting glimpse of a pale, pointed ear. “Elf-blood!” Rhosorien greets with jubilation, for his kind these is dispersed and tame. He does not yet approach, and keeps his hand on his blade until he is satisfied the woman means him no harm.

Skylei reacts with a strange kind of echo of his words, “Elf-blood!” It is filled with relief and an equal jubilation. She had not expected to happen It is as though they have to ascertain exactly who they are, and to whom they are affiliated. Still, even with her certainty that Rhosorien shares a collective blood type, Skylei’s hands don’t leave her bow. She would like to simply drop the bow to the ground and greet the stranger with the joy she feels upon seeing his face and those pointed ears but that fear of treachery runs deep and so she keeps her distance and remains armed. Rather than point a loaded arrow at him, her hand would loosen on the string and the projectile would be pointed downwards as she seeks to explain her presence to him, “I mean no harm to any child of Sage. You know, as I do, these woods are no longer safe for us but yet her children still return, aye?”

Rhosorien is satisfied by her greeting and a good view of her face, and swiftly crosses the platform to begin his descent of the tree. He is reaching the ground as she is explaining herself, and turns to face her when his boots are firmly upon it. His hands go behind his back again, this time to find and grasp each other. “To return, one must leave. They fled in droves, this way and that.” Somehow this brings a small smirk to his lips, “none ever thought to simply spread out, and continue unseen. Sooner an outlaw in Sage than a free man in Cenril. Of course, some do still trickle in, from time to time. Perhaps others did stay, and we have all been done so fine a job of going underground that we've yet to find one another. Until now.” Skylei feels a pang of shame when he speaks of living in Cenril and a ruddy flush spreads across her face. She begins a prideful retort, “The last two times I dared come this way I happened upon drow. I reside primarily in Cenril. Sooner a live woman in Cenril, than a drow desecrated corpse in Sage.” Extra emphasis on the Cenril part of that statement. Skylei continues on with elven business. Unfortunately over the last few years ‘elven business’ has been compiled solely of the drow occupation and the various attempts, most being feeble, to rid the forest of the dark cousins, “You’ve heard of the drow deaths in Kelay, I assume? One might be underground but word still travels fast. Those still left in Frostmaw are growing increasingly irritated. I would not be surprised if some turn to vigilantism.” Unbeknownst to Skylei, that has already begun. She goes to continue with the elven gossip when there is a newly emphatic rustling sound coming from the east. It’s not the wind, but as there’s more than just drow within the forest, Skylei cannot instantly ascertain whether it is man, beast or something else entirely. Naturally, she falls silent and her bow is re-engaged.

Rhosorien stills his expression and his becomes neutral. He nods, and responds, “yes, I have heard.” He is usually keen to avoid mention of such events, especially beneath the trees, lest the swapping of news turn into dangerous conspiring. However even he cannot evade his own curiosity. “You suspect the Frostmaw sylvans as perpetrators of this act?” His sleek, earthen hair sways to and fro as he shakes his head, as if in brief lament. “To seek sanctuary there was foolish, I did say. She who rules the tundra allies with He who rules the Underdark. Giants may not be evil, but they are unfriendly. And the wastes that surround it are home to all manner of unruly beasts and ancient spirits. Who truly believed-” He clams up suddenly, his hands separating to grasp both of the daggers sheathed on his back. To be caught in the open would be most unsuitable, and forest-green eyes pierce all surrounding foliage for the best way to disappear amongst the greenery.

Skylei doesn’t approach the rustling noise nor does she make any sudden move to disappear or mask her presence. All she does is draw her bow and mutter the early part of an incantation to set the loaded arrow alight. The lack of volume, and indeed lack of subtlety, of the movement through the woods Skylei assumes can only mean it is not an organised drow patrol. It may be one, maybe two at most and Skylei likes to believe that two elves could kill two drow. A head draws near to some of the lighter foliage allowing elf and half-blood a clear line of sight. It just so happens that the creature that has them paranoid isn’t born of the Underdark. It’s one of the deer, now somewhat sparse in number, that roam Sage. She breathes a deep sigh of relief. Paranoia is a horrible mistress. Turning back to the elf, unless he had already disappeared, Skylei raises her eyebrows, a look of pure disgust pinned to her face “They’re say that Frostmaw’s Steward had the bodies returned to the Mages Tower with an apology. Frostmaw may have been our shelter, but it is not our friend. Either way, I would expect increased numbers, patrols and violence. They’ll be seeking vengeance and, no matter who the perpetrator was, I can guarantee it will be the heads of our kind they seek. Next time, it won’t be a deer.”

Rhosorien is irritated with himself, but moreso the woman before him. He would have known intrinsically the difference of step between man and beast, had the startling of Skylei not set him off, so he believes. “They seek any and all excuse to hunt our ilk. This time, predict I, they will bang upon Frostmaw's gates, and demand the exiles be shipped straight to them, bound hand-and-foot. All I hope is that the incident will reveal if the Steward is truly black-of-heart, or if she merely fears Tiphareth just as much as the rest of us.” There is an uneasy silence between the two rangers, notleastso for Rhosorien's now deep study of Skylei's face, and the look of unsettled resignation that comes to his own. “I sense you are unhappy with the current state of affairs.”

Skylei indeed knows the difference between the step of man and beast, but paranoia plays tricks on the mind and ear and allows the ranger to hear what she fears rather than what is there. In Skylei’s mind, the whole forest is teeming with drow, all ready to slit her throat. To Rhosorien she looks as he questions her, “Are you? I can see how this new ‘conflict’ will go. The tension rises, there will be deaths either side until the drow put their foot down. More of our people will be slaughtered than their people, and what will be done? We will do nothing. Cenril, Xalious, Gualon, Chartsend and Frostmaw; we’re scattered, helpless, and useless. We were once a proud people who loved our home.” Skylei grows ever more blasphemous, “At this point, we might as well stop calling it that, because if something does not change, elves won’t ever walk in Sage again.” Skylei stops and turns away, her prideful face clearly displaying the depth of her anger. When she does conclude her thoughts they are spoken a little more softly, “For months I haven’t slept without dreaming of this place. And, in my dreams, it’s screaming and screaming and it won’t stop. I have begun to feel as though I am alone in such dreams.”

Rhosorien 's face hardens, and his hands hitch themselves an inch further up his back. Skylei's words echo a sentiment Rhosorien seethed with for the longest time. His body continues to tighten, drawing up as if preparing to brace; then his shoulders fall in collusion with a long, sympathetic sigh. “We can fight, or we can live. Defiance has resulted only in death. We scatter because the druids are gone. How shall we unite, when our ancient concept of leadership has been broken?” The question is not rhetorical, though Rhoss suspects it shall be lost upon the one before him. “If my body feeds the roots, then the cycle is complete. I do not see why I should consider this probability something from which I ought to flee. You can be assured that until our enemy discovers me, there shall remain at least one treeborne in Sage – and his name is Rhosorien.” The ranger's rigid frame now bends into a sharp, courteous bow, “perhaps, if enough elves can rally to make it seem worth his while, he will consent to dying with them.”

“I’d rather die fighting than live subservient. And I intend to do just that.” Stubborn defiance tempered in the set of her jaw has long defined Skylei and, it seems, that this matter is no different. “I’m Sky. Skylei Lucindio.” Whilst she does not bow, Skylei, of course, offers her last name as a way of laying her stake to the elven birthright. With a blatantly pseudo-elven name like Skylei, it’s the best claim she’s got. “For elves to rally it will take no short measure of persuasion, charisma and a defiant spirit like no other. Not to mention ears a little longer than these, or else I’d have tried long ago. The druids are gone, but in times like these perhaps we must stray further from the traditions that we would like. For men to consent to die, they need someone and something they believe in to die for.” Skylei shakes her head, casting her eyes to the canopy and the movement of the blazing sun above, “I’ve tarried longer than was needed. My work waits for no man and time grows ever shorter.”

Rhosorien emits a little 'hmph' at the name, and a small amusement plays briefly in his green eyes. “Yes, every man knows Lucindio's are not charismatic or defiant. You may have also noticed that we of long ear do not seem altogether inclined to unite ourselves.” Rhosorien's arms slacken and his body turns at Skylei speaks of her 'work', as if he were about to disappear in that precise instant, when he pauses to glance over his arm, and face Skylei again, “let me advise you: rage does not ally itself with wisdom. Farewell, ma'am.”

Skylei opens her mouth and then closes it again. There are a multitude of clever comebacks and witty comments that Skylei could choose to leave on. Instead she gathers the moss than she had been harvesting, slings her bow back over her back and says nothing on the subject of the Lucindio family traits, or on the matter of wisdom and rage. Rhosorien may not be an enemy, indeed perhaps he will grow to be an ally but Sky daren’t utter words in an attempt at wit that might unmask her later. Turning to leave she’d utter a more formal goodbye, “Trees watch over you elf kin.”

Rhosorien said to Skylei, "It is I who watches them."