RP:What Is Your Role Going To Be?

Location: Southern Sage Forest

Synopsis: A newcomer to Lithrydel, Locke Abigail encounters the healer Penelope Halifax and wonders if the terrible things he's heard about the land are true. Penelope turns his question on its head, challenging the young ranger to rise about the darker truths and become a part of the brighter ones.

New Forest

Locke was a long way from home… and he knew it. The trees were slimmer in Lithrydel, their branches thick but nowhere near as winding. In Splitriver Sound, elves made their homes across the canopies, their huts and shacks zigzagging along wherever the branches twirled. The birds wore duller plumes here, which gave them the appearance of something more muted, more serious. Back in the Dales, birds drew beautiful plumage in rainbows of color to attract mates and ward off rivals. Even the ground felt harsher, as if it resisted Locke’s gentle step at every turn. But more than anything tangible, there was the intangible; perhaps the air was more humid, but Locke thought it was something else, something more difficult to quantify. It was as if Lithrydel itself was less welcoming. “Or maybe it’s my imagination,” he mumbled softly with a sigh. He’d been jumpier since coming ashore here. Already he had encountered fiercer monsters than anything he’d seen abroad, from the saber-toothed beast near Xalious to the drakes not far from Gualon. None were so monstrous, however, as the slavers’ camp roughly three kilometers from here. It pained the half-elf that he hadn’t the means to take them on himself. Ever since espying those demons called men, he’s been seeing ugly things in his peripheral.

Penelope is dragging at this point. Almost two days of zero sleep. Yerrel insisted she go home and rest, but the client that was lying in the cot at the hut had her turned upside down in a resistant fit. Linken almost died yesterday, and today he blamed her. The man shook her senselessly out of anger for being upset that he almost died for being a knight and shining armor. Lies and defeat. No wonder the two were ex-lovers. She remembered that their relationship was full of—secrets, death, and well the depression goes on. The freckled woman was filled with content to be away from the hostility that was their past. Now, the woman leaves the hut and weaves through the forest to return to what used to be home. Destination: Silent Forest. Her hair is frizzy and unkempt, but somehow it would remain satisfying to a stranger’s eye. Her clothes, however, are stained with blood that is not her own. The healer luckily has a chunky, green, knitted cardigan to hide the evidence, so people would not assume she was a murderer or hurt herself. Perhaps it was time to keep a spare change at Yerrel’s hut. From afar there was a tree that sprouted witch hazel. Moss eyes flutter in sleep deprivation, but instantly they become clear and doe-eyed. Feet paced quickly to begin collecting and making plenty of rustled noises through the forest.

Locke | It was the noise that confirmed his suspicions. Locke’s mind raced with possibilities. Did the slavers catch sight of his espionage? Why would they give such chase, though? Even if they had the intent to capture him, three kilometers would have been a tortuous run for men with such thicker bodies than his. Whatever it was, it was humanoid; the heft was modest but not inconsequential and the pace matched that of a brisk woman. Locke gauged that she had to have been between the ages of twenty and thirty-five, and that she was definitely not a dwarf, hobbit, elf, orc, or avian. The faint scent of blood waved its way through the still air with enough speed to warn him that she may have been wounded, which struck Locke as odd given that her movement was so mundane. It was an odd enough mystery to warrant the enlistment of local aid. Locke quietly hid behind the thickest tree in his immediate vicinity, crouching low with keen green eyes. He withdrew a small flute, simple in design and completely wooden, and played a tune so gentle, so hushed, that the nearby woman might not have even heard it. Out came a white-tailed fox with creamy orange fur and a curious disposition from a nearby bush. Locke had never seen her before, but she regarded him with warmth and trotted behind his tree. “Hello,” he whispered. She nuzzled and yapped. The woman would surely have heard her bark, and as the fox sprinted out into the open, their paths would soon cross. Locke felt the light breeze pass over him without a hint of malice and contemplated stepping out soon himself.

Penelope did not hear the faint music in the distance, but she did hear the content screech of the fox. Foxes made strange sounds. The witch hazel that lingered in the palm of the herbalist quickly moved itself within a jar that she had pulled out momentarily. The cardigan goes loose in the front revealing the stains of crimson as she finally turns to face the fox. The woman is not injured, but it does not explain the blood. Penelope feels solitary. A fox and the button-nosed girl. The two stare at each other and have a quiet contest before the human blinks. “Hi,” she releases in a tone of velvet—which does not sound like a murderous voice. She takes a few hesitant steps towards the furry critter, but then the fox scurries into nearby bushes again. “Ta-ta.” She ends before screwing on the lid of the jar full of plants. Where Locke is located, Penelope probably now right in front of his gaze as a side-view of her.

Locke tilted his head inquisitively. He’d determined that the woman was either benevolent and kind or a cold-blooded killer traipsing along the countryside with a soft spot for foxes, but either way he was no longer concerned. What bewildered him now was her wordage. “Ta-ta?” he asked in the melodical voice of his heritage, emerging from the foliage. His hands were in the air to illustrate an offering of peace. He held his flute lightly in his left hand. If the woman turned out to be a killer, he’d have moved swiftly, withdrawing his bow to maintain a safe distance and nocking an arrow at the ready. Seeing her, however, he felt like that wasn’t going to be necessary. “I do not understand this ‘ta-ta’. Is it local vernacular? I’m intrigued by its etymology. Does it find its roots in the Arthrani ‘tat-el’, which means to reveal another person’s secrets? Though what secrets you’d share with fellow culprits regarding a kindhearted fox, I can scarcely imagine.” Locke’s brown hair was ruffled. His face seemed clean enough, highlighting the ritualistic tattoo on his left cheek. His clothing was loose-fitting, a blend of earthy browns and greens. He had the appearance of a polite young traveler, although his eyes seemed sharper than the rest of him.

Penelope :: A jolt would rush up her back as the half elf began to rustle from the bushes with a questionable action of her slang. “Holy Sven,” she placed a hand over her chest. “You spooked me,” she gives a sigh of relief and a partial uncomfortable laugh. He was watching her, and she was wrong that she was alone. Swiftly she covers the disgusting stains of Linken’s blood on her flowing tunic underneath with the sweater. “The dialect is referred to as a slang word usage for the word goodbye,” pause. Moss eyes take him in. He appears to have a young face to her, but she could not be so sure because when men shaved, they looked like they were in their teen years. The earth tones in his garb make her consider he is not some sort of rogue. Rogues were more edgy than this nature-wanderer. The healer was quite observant. Perhaps in the wrong ways, but she liked to take her chances. “Where I got it from was from a library that I used to go to on a certain day of the week. They have authors and local speakers talk to the patrons there and sort of… perform their readings. One speaker used the word, and it caught on to me ever since. Now, the origin in which he is from, I could not tell you. I’m guessing you’re a descriptivist. Curious about new common language which means that you are not a local—are you?” She squints and studies him.

Locke felt embarrassed in the wake of the woman’s fright. Not because he’d caused it, but because it was his intention to cause it. ‘Ta-ta’ drew him out of hiding, but he needed a certain measured suddenness in order to catch her off-guard should she have proven to be less gentle-looking. Loudness would have been overkill for the situation, which was just as well because Locke abhorred being loud. A soft approach, a harmless yet abrupt appearance as if out of nowhere, spontaneously generating next to her, was the way to go. He had planned on apologizing first and foremost, but somewhere along the way he forgot all about that. The woman’s explanation was richer and more thorough than he’d dared hope it would be. “Yes, indeed the very basis of prescriptivism disgusts me. A holistic accounting of the diverse blend of cultures across the world -- that is the way to true understanding. Perhaps it is the way to peace as well.” He smiled. “I am, as they say, not from around here, no. But here, wherever here is, has become more interesting to me in the wake of your revelation that at least one library exists in Lithrydel. I know little and less of Lithrydel, but for the rumors.” He seemed to believe the woman would know what that meant.

Penelope was grateful for what gentleness he portrayed. The woman smiles at his answer on prescriptivism. “I could agree. I like that everyone has their own culture, and it should be recognized, but in order to communicate, we need to gather more from each other.” The pale woman nods along with him. “I had a feeling. You’re very cautious it seems—considering you were hiding in a bush stalking me,” plump lips form into a teasing grin. “Cenril is where I normally used to go for those public readings in their library.” She then tilts her head. “Rumors? Enlighten me. Rumor is a vague term, plus, some people give faulty information because they tend to spread bits and pieces through each ear. It gets a little foggy.”

Locke was unable to deny the stalking, although all things considered he might have chosen a less unsavory term for it. Having been beaten to the punch, it was all he could afford to save face with a more visual representation of his embarrassment. He stammered, a bit taken aback that the woman had not known what he’d meant by ‘rumors.’ On further thought, it was as vague a term as she claimed, and it would have been best to specify his meaning. “Forgive me,” he said. “It is only that such things are not easily talked about, and from the way the rumors have permeated hillside taverns and forest retreats from one foreign land to the next, I had unfairly assumed the residents here would know my meaning.” Now Locke had to give those rumors voice, and it felt distasteful to utter what he had heard. What if it was all superstition? What if some crone somewhere had been vexed by Lithrydel, or a besmirched king had been ousted, and in either case foul gossip was spread throughout the known world? “It will bring me shame to be mistaken, for I will only be multiplying the slander these halfling ears have heard. But from what they -have- heard, Lithrydel is a land of terrors personified. Vampires rule the north, warmongering frost giants the true north, saurians prowl the far west. Ogres raid a nearby island on the regular. Pirates with ironically-titled seacraft plunder and pillage and raid the high seas, and where they dare not tread, mythical ocean entities watch in waiting. Witches and queens drown the realm in blood, and what blood is not spilt in their bickering is surely split by the return of some dark immortal or other and his evil hordes.” Locke felt lightheaded even repeating it. He sighed, only now recalling the very vivid stains of blood on the woman’s garb. “Ah, speaking of blood… are you injured?” He pointed.

Penelope could not help but give a faint smile at what he has heard. The different places he describes makes the smile on her lips grow. The doe-eyed woman now gives a sly gaze. “Those rumors you speak of,” her tone is ever-so-slow and slippery. “They’re real. Lithrydel is diverse – trouble in all sorts of corners.” Beat. “I guess it is up for you to decide which corner you want to be in.” She twirls a finger around the jar she holds in one of her hands. “There’s death around every corner, and it is up to you to play it smart or not. I played it safe for a while—it was a mediocre mistake,” her facial expression is flat. “What is your role going to be?” That was a rhetorical question and she lets it hang there. She then looks down at the cardigan that hides the blood stains. She opens the cardigan and reveals the grey flowy shirt that has dried blood on it. “It was a long couple of days at Yerrel’s hut,” she then glimpses at him and quickly adds, “I’m an apprentice. Learning to heal others. Found a man yesterday that had a lung wound. Didn’t have a change of clothes afterwards.” Her eyes begin to grow lazy. “Pardon,” she lets out a small yawn. “I’ve been up for two days.” She looks towards the east. “I think I’m going to sleep now.” Moss eyes land softly on him. “Penelope. Penelope Halifax if you find yourself in a… bloody predicament. I live in the quiet parts of these woods near the watering hole. Yerrel’s hut is also located Northern Kelay—but I also bounce back and forth from the herb shop and his hut. It’s a lot of information, I know, but… do what you will with it.” She waits a beat to see if he responds with his name. If so, she will nod along and then leave. If not, she will still just leave east into the depths of the forest with the jar swaying in her hand.

Locke sensed no deception in Penelope’s words. Not that he was psychic, or a mental mage, or the downer of some miracle mind-reading elixir. Out here, the young ranger had only his wits, and they were stronger in some ways than others. On the subject of feeling a person out for their honest intentions or otherwise, he hoped he was good as he thought he was. Penelope was a healer, a soother of wounds and wounded. There was great respect for the healing arts where Locke was from. Now that he knew what the woman stood for, he might have fixated on her profession, and instantly shown reverence. Her preceding words, however, were ominous yet wise. Where would Locke stand in a land as tumultuous as he’d heard, but kind enough at least in certain corners for good people like Penelope to roam? Then again, she just said she used to play it safe. Used to. She’d commited herself to her cause, wandering through dangerous turfs to realize her ambitions. “You are virtuous, to move through the dangers of a perilous realm with the goal of saving, not destroying. That is who I hope to be, here and elsewhere.” Maybe he could have mentioned the fact that there was an exception to his rule — slavers and their ilk would be hunted down without mercy. It wasn’t dishonesty that held his tongue, but acknowledgement that his newfound acquaintance was exhausted. “Abigail,” he answered. “Locke Abigail.” He smiled, and his smile was clearly sincere. “May our paths cross again, and when they do, I shall count you as a friend.”