8 March 2373
By my pocketwatch, our marching“days” have been over twenty-eight hours rather than twenty-four, meaning that this fourth “evening,”is nearing the sixth Trueplane day since we arrived. I will confer with Fennorin on this matter, but I suspect the vitality innate to this realm has allowed us to push our bodies beyond their True limits.
We have also learned to identify and avoid pixie hollows. Their signature aromatic mushrooms are perceptible to Captain Kridarnn from a ways away. Fenn claims these mushrooms are also responsible for his illusions noted on day one. To the delight of our taste buds, Syrdin tends to spot the Yuka groves a good ways off–always near the Pixie hollows. They pair beautifully with Fennorin’s reserves of oatmeal. I am optimistic that some samples could be preserved in an emptied jar of jam for future sampling.
Until the End of Another Adventurous Day,
Mellark
From The Truth and the Fae: A Memoir
By Mellark Brandybeard
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SYRDIN
Nightwatch should occur at night. Syrdin lounged in the crook of a tree, zheir sore muscles stretched across the squat branch. Zhe spun a dagger listlessly in zheir hand, keeping zheir eyes roving over the sunny forest. The light was as bright as ever, glaring at zhem with all the anger of the Dwarves.
Soft snores rose from Krid’s tent, plain-looking in its sandy color next to the embroidered Etnfrandian tents. He slept soundly–not like Night Elves did–with no fear of ambush. His relentless driving onward wearied even him. Which meant he left the others too weary to even complain. Syrdin didn’t doubt they would’ve, given the chance. Even now, they were no more than two days away from a full on coup–not that Krid was supposed to be in charge.
An unusual yellow bird–shoth–fluttered into a nearby branch, boasting in a chipper song. It had plenty to boast about: richly yellow scale-feathers with vibrant purple stripes running from its eyes to its back. Syrdin wiped the sweat dripping from behind zheir neck and considered striking it with the dagger, curious whether the forest would respond. It hadn’t for the Panthrae or Flotymus. How bad could it be?
A second song joined it, mournful. The notes tugged on Syrdin’s mind like fingers reaching in to coax zhem to seek the source, to come and rescue it.
Syrdin sat up in alarm. That’s no ordinary bird. The yellow one scattered away in surprise. It sounds humanoid, almost elven. Zhe shook zheir head, pushing back against the urge to follow the sound. It’s trying to charm me.
Zhe hopped down from the tree, heart thumping an anxious rhythm as zhe began to pace the camp. If the others woke and heard it, they might fall prey to that voice. If that were to happen, zhe might not be able to save them. Is it better to hunt the creature down?
Zhe doubted it would be as powerful as Ferngal.
Yet, it was not safe to go alone. As non-Faerie, the human and drakeman were more likely to fall victim. That left Galendria and Fenn.
Syrdin scrunched zheir nose. Nope. With those two as zheir only options, zhe decided to wait and hope. They could keep the non-faerie company on their future watches, but they were not fit for a hunting party.
The song continued to cast its line, steadily trailing it through the air in hopes of a catch. Syrdin ran through zheir kata’s, focusing zheir mind on the movements to force out the sounds. At long last, it stopped. Whatever had sung, it must have caught some prey. Zhe hated to think what fool creature had walked itself onto a dinner plate. Zhe gritted zheir teeth and kept an uneasy watch, listening for a hint of another song.
When the time came, Syrdin woke Krid for his watch and explained everything. “If you hear singing that sounds even a smidge human-like, call for help right away. Don’t wait, or you won’t be in control of yourself,” zhe finished.
Krid was sitting up, legs crossed. “Not in control?”
“Like in a dream.”
He nodded, grave. “I’ll do as you’ve said.”
“Good.” Zhe turned to go. “We should switch to double watches from here on.”
“Should you fetch Fenn to join me?” he asked.
Syrdin hesitated. Zhe had plans that required the lad to be sound asleep. “You’ll be fine for now. It already completed tonight’s hunt.” With that, zhe trotted to zheir tent.
Inside, zhe snatched his notebook from beside Fenn’s bedroll where he’d laid it when he’d finally stopped scribbling. Silent as a stone, zhe flipped it open. Most of the pages had useless sketches of animals or plants with some notes on their roles in the balance of life, or rather, the chaos of it on this plane. Boring.
On the first page about an artifact, zhe stopped. It was the boots zhe wore. They depicted a great warrior backed by a deep blue orb with dark lines stretching outward. Not a moon, nor a sun. Darkness, Syrdin knew. This she-elf, with a noble face and full armor, wore her hair braided into twists. With one hand, she gripped a naginata stabbed into the ground. The other held a ceremonial keris against her chest, hilt-upward. Sabaed.
Mother, Ath-togail whispered behind zhem, identifying the drawing. Syrdin whipped zheir head around, but no one was there, only a vague sense of presence.
Finally decided to manifest? Syrdin thought to her. I was starting to think you couldn’t.
I merely hide.
Is he here, the Highfather?
I don’t know.
Syrdin frowned. What do you know?
Read, little one. There is much to learn, and these people can help us.
Zheir frown deepened. That’s what I was doing. Zhe turned back to the page. A long string of notes read,
“Increasingly, I suspect this goddess to be Sabaed. I at first resisted the idea based on the legends around her betrayal. A love affair is the epitome of disloyalty, a particular hypocrisy if the Etnfrandian Commands of War have their roots in her teachings. Loyalty is the First Decree. I did not think this artifact, a symbol of Wartime, could both represent her and belong to the Etnfrandians, who loathe her.
Moreover, her weapons support her connection to the Commands of War. The dagger held to her chest, which represents the center of morality, could have but one purpose: a clean kill. This is consistent with the Third Decree of a clean fight. One does not leave an enemy to suffer slowly from a lethal wound. Alternatively, the very act of killing could be the center of her morality, but I find this unlikely with the accompanying glaive driven into the ground, not a body. Either way, the figure’s connection to the Commands made me doubt her identity as Sabaed.
But then again the artifact could be older than the Great Wars themselves. This means it would indeed depict Sabaed–an artifact stolen from her possession, perhaps, or made in tribute prior to her betrayal. The other Houses; especially Tradition, Education, and Cultivation; connect directly to a member of the pantheon–even our “Highfather” is named the same as that high god among them. Why wouldn’t the House of Militant Arts be the righteous counterpart of Sabaed’s role?
And still there is more evidence for the warrior to be Sabaed. Namely, her appearance is completely consistent with that of the Night Elf tribe, as depicted on the next page.”
Syrdin flipped the page greedily. It indeed depicted Night Elves. Not in their protective leathers nor the ceremonial silks that zhe had known, but in cotton tunics. The Brikhvarnni Night Elves. Fenn must have stashed some colors somewhere because he tinted the elves with them. Their skin was a mix of graphite gray and a blueish hue. Their clothes were left white, as was the textured hair, but the eyes he had shaded red, occasionally with a purpling hint of blue. None had skin marbled like Syrdin’s–none so scarred. It was accurate, of course; a dagger to the eye.
Syrdin pursed zheir lips. He was supposed to be a student of Elven lore and enchantment magic. Why the interest in Night Elves? Scholar’s curiosity? His study lacked… hostility.
As zheir eyes scanned the page, they came to rest on something that made zheir stomach drop out of zheir belly.
Me.
In the bottom right corner, several sketches captured Syrdin’s likeness. The gentle turn of zheir nose, zheir hard jaw, the harsh angle of zheir cheek. The line of zheir cowl ended most of the sketches save one. That one attempted to reconstruct zheir face, offering deep, hooded eyes and a heavy brow. Zhe smiled. It made zhem appear quite manly in a highland way.
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He knows I’m a Night Elf. Zhe traced the drawings with zheir finger. He already knows but said nothing of it. He seemed to have known for a while, yet had done little more than ask why zhe followed them here.
If zhe was honest, zhe had expected Fenn to figure it out after they shared a tent for a few nights. Syrdin wasn’t a sound sleeper by any means, but neither was zhe a still one. The hood would slip. Zhe had known that. Zhe had expected to be confronted and have to threaten and persuade. Instead, Syrdin felt a swell of pride at how excellent a cover zhe had discovered in the Brikhvarnni refugees. Even an elf familiar with that group of people had assumed it.
Zhe flipped the pages, sifting through the notes on the artifacts. The rest were useless. Some notes on how they were more likely tributes to, not belongings of, the gods–a correction of his earlier statement. He seemed excited by the idea of his people making tributes to the gods. Foolish. Gods could be as destructive as helpful. Just look at the state of my people.
And what of me? Ath-togail whispered to zheir mind.
You and I want the same things.
Zhe could feel the goddess considering this. Syrdin didn’t know what Ath-togail expected beyond this mission. Some champion? Syrdin would never champion a god. Zhe would sooner choose death.
That can be arranged. Ath-togail’s voice was gentle. It was as much an offer as a threat. We need not continue our deal.
With teeth gritted, Syrdin flipped back to the page which depicted zhem. Zhe slipped Fenn’s pencil from the page it marked. I said we want the same things.
That seemed to quell the goddess for the time being.
Fenn sighed in his sleep, his eyes twitching in dreams. Those eyes were the deep, hooded ones he had drawn. Yet they were not dark, not shadowed. If anything, they generally held kindness–compassion. He was weak with it. Though what he held in compassion, he doubled in intelligence. His notes were thorough. Even Syrdin could tell he was piecing together a larger realization. Zhe intended to be around to benefit whenever he put it all together.
Zhe scratched out a swift note. My eyes are wrong. I don’t have double-lids, like your people, and my hair is wavy and a lot thicker than you think. Try smoothing out the eyes and forehead.
With that, zhe stuck the pencil into the page and closed the book, slipping it back into place. That simple note would betray that zhe had rifled through his notes, but it would also establish some communication between them. One where Fenn didn’t feel the need to fret for five minutes before speaking.
Syrdin curled up for sleep, not bothering to adjust zheir hood. Zheir face was no longer a secret from anyone but the girl. Whether from fear, respect, or some misplaced kindness, Fenn was not of a mind to reveal zheir race. Or pity. Zhe rolled over. I can work with that.
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FENNORIN
The moment Krid emerged from his tent with a greeting nod was, evidently, the moment everyone else was required to pack up and move. Fenn stood from his cushion where he had kept watch, listening for that supposed singing voice. He stretched his aching muscles–the heat warded off stiffness but could not save him from strain–and reached for his notebook. Krid had forbidden him from opening it while on watch. Now, at long last, he could jot down his theories on the singer before–
“Next time you’re on third watch, you’ll prepare breakfasts for everyone to grab. It’ll save time. Now wake Syrdin. Please.” Krid huffed off toward the food rations.
Fenn blinked at the terse orders. The please had been an afterthought. Though he tried, he couldn’t recall doing anything to upset Krid. Fenn plucked up the cushion and brought it into the tent for Syrdin to stash in zheir bag.
He stood over zhem, hesitated, then chose to squat and roll his own bedroll. Syrdin soon stirred and sat up. It was incredible how the cowl stayed over zheir head.
“Sunrise’s blessing,” he greeted zhem. He placed the cushion near zhem. “Could you put this away? I’m not sure why, but Krid is in a foul mood. I think he’d prefer we scurry like the ants today.” It was a Brikhvarnni saying, and he enjoyed the perfect application of it. Efficiently and in order, like ants.
Syrdin sighed. “Must be because I told him he’d be useless against that magic voice.”
Half a dozen questions leapt to Fenn’s mind. He itched to grab his notebook and probe zhem for details. Instead, zhe was up and packing before he had managed to piece together his first question.
“Did it sound elven?” he blurted.
Zhe paused for the merest moment. “We both know it’s not an elf.”
“No, but if the timbre of the voice was humanoid…” he trailed off as zheir eyes turned to him, ever glowing in the shadows of the hood. “...it would limit the possibilities.” He couldn’t help how he braced as though he would be struck for speaking.
Syrdin emitted an exaggerated sigh. “It sounded enough like a person to be disorienting, but a little like a bird. Now pack. Or do you enjoy Krid’s grumpy side?”
Fenn hustled to stuff his bag and roll the tent. This time, he managed to fit everything the way it had been yesterday. He even remembered to shorten the straps before he pulled it on, despite other thoughts picking at his attention. A little like a bird, zhe’d said. Sea-faring sirens were not an option in a forest. Dryads or nymphs were a possibility. Then, among shoth, there were a few kinds that were said to charm prey. Only a few of those could be dangerous–well, life-threatening–to people of their size. A shoth seemed likeliest.
He stood from the ground, testing the ties that secured the tent to his pack. Yes, he nodded to himself, the odds are low that this shoth is a very dangerous one.
The tent rolled down the back of his pack. He bent under Krid’s glare, turning to gather the tent. It pulled with him, still partially attached.
Syrdin laughed, and Galendria sent zhem a splintering glare as she ran over to help. “I bet zhe sabotaged it, just to embarrass you,” she said, frosty.
Fenn shook his head as Gale helped him lower the pack without crushing his tent. “I was distracted.”
Gale sighed, disappointed that she couldn’t blame Syrdin. “This place does have a lot to consider. It’s very much like the songs.”
Fenn reached for a peg, folding it with deliberate care into the tent. “Yes, I never expected so much of it to be true. Unending evenings of dance…” he glanced up at the unmoving sun. “It turned out very literal.”
“Well, I never expected this place to literally exist.” Gale’s fingers worked deftly on the ties on her side of his tent.
He studied the thoughtful knit forming in her brow. “We learned of it in school, a little,” he prompted her. He could recall a few grade school mentions of having segregated tribes and of a Wildland where they dwelt. Always a frightful, evil place.
The knit of her brow deepened, her lips pressing together with the effort of remembrance while she worked. “Only as a symbol of ancient times for barbaric tribes.”
Fenn frowned as he tugged the loose ends of his string into a double knot. “They truly left no room for most citizens to wonder about magic and the Fae.”
“They?” She leaned back from the now-secured tent, head cocked.
He rose to his feet, bobbing his gratitude for her help as he heaved his bag onto his shoulders. “The House of Tradition.” It was obvious enough.
She rose after him, her head only tilting further, hair falling free from behind her lower ear. He realized, then, that he had spoken very little to her of the true work of that House.
“Do you really believe it was purposeful?” she asked.
He looked away. The memory of that library burning flickered inside him. He snuffed it, leaving a cold, empty feeling. My father went to great lengths to prevent me from exploring that knowledge. I doubt he began that practice.
A touch from Gale sent him leaping out of his thoughts in a flash of panic.
“Fenn, are you alright?” She examined his expression with worry in her own.
“I’m well.” He shook himself. She’d only put a hand to his elbow; she’d only been concerned. He forced himself to meet her worry with his gaze, but his mouth had dried like cotton. Why try? Just two days before, Gale had resisted the idea that Etnfrandian histories had been falsified. He knew he should explain how he knew, yet the words felt heavy. They would be slow to come–if they’d come at all. Krid glared at them. Scurry like ants. “We’d best grab our biscuits and prepare to march.”
Blessedly, she let the topic drop as they grabbed breakfast and took formation. The biscuits were stale, but the day was new and Fenn soon forgot Krid’s sour mood in favor of the fauna around them. He could spot one or two creatures he hadn’t noticed before, which he hoped was a sign that the flora would change, and they would leave Ferngal’s forest behind.
By the time they neared lunch–by Mell’s pocketwatch–he had about a dozen more notes to write. When Krid called a halt, Fenn wasted no time pulling out his book. He flipped it open. His pencil was wedged in the wrong page, the one with the Night Elves. He stiffened and glanced at Syrdin, hoping zhe wouldn’t notice it. Normally, even a small peek in zheir direction would earn him a glare. Now zhe pointedly ignored him, engaging Krid in a conversation about a spar. One that would wait, he heard, until they had left this forest.
He turned back to the notebook, ready to flip to a fresh page, when he noticed it: an inscription in an unfamiliar hand. He blinked, not believing what he saw. Not only had Syrdin read his notebook without him noticing, but zhe had left a note. About zheir appearance. He stared at zhem, then back at the page.
“Fenn, is something wrong?” Gale asked, approaching with rations for two in her hands.
Quickly, he flipped to a blank page. “It’s nothing. I just –I was thinking about the singing Syrdin heard,” he said. He was no good at hiding the truth, but this lie intrigued her.
“Singing? What sang?” she leaned forward. “Another song-shoth?”
Fenn explained the magical predator swiftly, then listened to Gale’s amazement at the many song-shoth of the forest while he jotted his notes. She marveled to him in her own lyrical chatter at the ways the different species often harmonized together, then created a cacophony. Once again, her sense of wonder far exceeded her sense of self-preservation. Despite the sweat on his back and the uncertainty ahead, he smiled to himself.
Syrdin’s cowl turned to him, and he thought the glint of zheir eyes seemed somehow less dangerous, less mocking than it had. It lingered a moment longer, penetrated less harshly.
He blinked and stared down at his page. Why didn’t zhe say anything?
“Fenn, what do you know of the weather patterns here?” Mell’s question pulled his attention back up. “Because I think it’s starting to look like rain.”