The morning sun had barely begun to cast its dappled glow through the dense canopy of Eldergrove forest when Ebonheim found herself journeying to the newly marked lands just south of the village. The towering trees were in quiet conversation with the morning breeze as she weaved her way through their gnarled roots and moss-covered trunks.
Clutched in her hands were bundles of herbs and supplies to aid the settling Aslankoyash tribe, including a basket of bread and some dried meats for breakfast. Even though they would soon be living together, Ebonheim did not want to make them feel indebted to the village—they were welcome to take as much as they needed, but she realized that the Aslankoyash's pride would not let them be their sole providers. They worked and contributed to both communities as if they'd lived together all this time.
Walking through the thick underbrush and listening to the crunch of leaves under her bare feet was soothing to her; the peace and tranquility of nature grounded her thoughts, even allowing her to escape the worries of leadership for a time. Ebonheim’s radiant aura seemed to dance with the dappled sunlight, casting a gossamer glow on the forest floor.
The makeshift dwellings of the Aslankoyash were a stark contrast to the thatched houses of Ebonheim. They were grand tents woven from animal hides and decorated with symbols and stories painted in vibrant natural dyes. The tribe’s camp buzzed with activity as the warriors carried bundles of wood, children ran around playfully, and elders sat around an open fire, their voices carrying tales of old times.
In her white dress, Ebonheim stood out like a star amidst the earth-toned surroundings, her iridescent hair glinting under the morning sun. But the beastkin welcomed her, their feline features softening into warm smiles.
Under the open sky, amidst the cluster of tents, she set down her bundles and began her work. The children were the first to approach her, their curiosity piqued by the bright array of herbs. With gentle hands, Ebonheim showed them how to apply a simple poultice made from healing plants, laughter bubbling from her lips as the children mimicked her movements.
“Ebonheim,” a deep voice echoed. She turned to find Pridelord Argoran approaching her, his one arm raised in greeting as he approached. Clad in thick leather armor and bearing an obsidian sword on his back, he looked every inch the proud leader of a fierce, tribal warrior race.
Ebonheim took a step back, kneeling on the ground and giving him a deep bow. "Pridelord," she said, rising back up to her feet.
Argoran reached over and took one of her hands, pressing it with the gentleness of a father. "Goddess, you needn't kneel before me," he said, his gruff voice softening for her. "You are a benevolent deity for what you have done for my tribe. I must be the one who bows to you."
Ebonheim smiled shyly as she heard Argoran's words; he was too kind. "It's no problem," she said, giving him a smile in return as she continued to show the children how to apply the poultice to their cuts and scratches. "Your people have suffered enough, and now you have a fresh start with us."
Argoran sighed and nodded, giving her a wistful smile. "Yes," he said softly, "our old life was taken from us. This is a new beginning."
As he spoke, Ebonheim took in the scars on his face and his missing arm with a gentle frown; the battles he had faced had left him scarred and emaciated, and she could sense his old age and fatigue weighing heavily on him. But there was also a determination to him—a glint in his eye that belied his age, an unyielding will to protect his people.
Argoran must have noticed her scrutiny because he turned away from her and knelt down beside the children, drawing their attention to the basket of food she had brought. "Come," he said, "let us eat."
As she began to help Argoran serve food, Ebonheim smiled to herself. In the presence of the Aslankoyash, Ebonheim felt a kinship. She saw the same stubborn will to survive, to thrive, that she had seen in her own villagers. And she was eager to learn more about them. From Argoran, she learned about their traditions, the stories etched on their tents, and the rites of passage for their young ones.
Later in the day, Serrandyl bounded up to her as she was tidying up after the children's playtime. "Ebonheim!" Serrandyl exclaimed, her red eyes lighting up as she came to a sudden stop in front of her. "Good news!"
Ebonheim blinked at her in surprise; Serrandyl seemed more excited than usual, like an eager puppy with its tail wagging, her cheeks flushed and her feline ears perked up. "Oh?" she asked, curious about the good news Serrandyl had to share.
Serrandyl's grin broadened as she pulled Ebonheim to her feet. "Engin agreed to my request!" she exclaimed. "I get to lead the village."
Ebonheim gawked at her, dropping the apple she was holding as she stared at Serrandyl with wide eyes. "Wait...what?!"
Serrandyl laughed and patted Ebonheim on the head, her eyes twinkling with mirth. "Don't act so surprised," she said, her voice soft but brimming with excitement as she gave Ebonheim a playful shove. "You told me to go ask Engin. And that's what I did!"
Ebonheim's mouth opened and closed like a beached fish for a moment before she finally managed to squeak out, "What did he say?"
Serrandyl's tail swept back and forth, the ends of it dancing in front of Ebonheim's face as she bounced on the spot with joy. "Well," she began, her grin widening as she recounted her conversation with Engin, "first I went to him and challenged him for his position—but I lost. So I challenged him again the next day, then the next, then the next!"
"How many times did you challenge him?"
Serrandyl counted on her fingers for a moment before responding with a dismissive shrug. "Just eight times?" she answered with a puzzled frown. "I don't remember. Anyways, eventually he told me to stop bothering him, so he decided to appoint me as the leader of the..." She tapped her chin and peered off to one side, mumbling to herself for a moment before continuing. "... 'Special Task Force'. Something like that."
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Ebonheim groaned and slumped to the ground, burying her head in her hands. Oh, thank the gods—err, she meant herself! Ebonheim let out a sigh of relief. Thank goodness it was something and not a position in the village's hierarchy. Just the thought of Serrandyl taking on a role as one of the village elders was...well, she shuddered, thinking of all the chaos Serrandyl would cause.
Serrandyl poked Ebonheim on the head, jolting her out of her thoughts. "Are you even listening?" Serrandyl demanded, crossing her arms in front of her chest. "I said I'm the leader of the 'Special Task Force' now."
Ebonheim groaned, pinching the bridge of her nose with one hand. "Okay," she replied in a quiet voice, "what exactly do you do as the leader of this 'Special Task Force?'"
"Not sure yet," Serrandyl admitted with a shrug. "I rushed over here as soon as Engin told me."
Ebonheim groaned again; of course, Serrandyl wasn't even going to try and get an answer until she had gone and started celebrating. With an exasperated sigh, she pulled herself to her feet and dusted off her dress.
Argoran, who had been quiet this whole time, finally spoke up and cleared his throat. "Forgive my daughter for being so hasty," he said as he approached them, reaching over to ruffle Serrandyl's hair. "She can be impulsive at times."
Serrandyl scowled at him before batting his hand away with a huff and shooting him a sour look. "Hey!" she protested, "I am not impulsive!"
Argoran ignored her outburst and continued speaking to Ebonheim. "I'll have a talk with Engin about Serrandyl's duties in the village. In the meantime, please let us know if you need anything." He bowed his head and then turned to leave, giving Serrandyl one last pat on the head to her obvious chagrin.
After Argoran had left, Ebonheim turned to Serrandyl with a chuckle. "Leader of the 'Special Task Force', huh?" she asked, grinning at the pouty beastkin.
Serrandyl huffed and crossed her arms again, her expression still sour. "It sounds cool," she grumbled, her voice trailing off at the end.
"I have to admit, it has a certain ring to it," Ebonheim said as she stepped closer to Serrandyl. "It'll probably do wonders for your ego."
She shot Ebonheim an exasperated look before swatting her on the backside with a growl, which only sent Ebonheim into peals of laughter. "Come on," Ebonheim said, wiping away the tears from her eyes as she regained her composure. "Let's get you back to the village so you can start planning this Task Force."
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8th day of Highglow, 1367
The moon was but a ghost behind the ominous veil of storm clouds; the wind howled through the vale, whipping at the tents of the Aslankoyash in a frenzy as it raced over the hills and the thick canopy of the Eldergrove. One of the tent flaps swayed in the wind, banging against its post and producing a rhythmic knocking sound that echoed through the night.
Serrandyl groaned and pulled her thin blanket over her head as the noise continued unabated. "Ugh," she muttered as she turned onto her stomach, her ears flicking against her head. "It's cold."
As if in response, the flaps of the tent stirred again, the wind's fury buffeting against its sides. A gust of cold air swept through, making Serrandyl shiver and burrow deeper under her covers. With another sigh, she sat up and began to drag herself to the entrance of the tent.
As she pulled aside the flap, a sheet of rain whipped against her face, soaking her skin with cold drops. Outside, the camp was bathed in a haze of rain and swirling leaves, the shadows of the trees dancing along the ground like frenzied spirits.
Serrandyl stepped out into the downpour, letting the cold water rush over her body as she stared off into the distance, her eyes focused on the rising and falling mist as it swirled around the vale. Her red eyes glowed faintly in the dark, reflecting the faint light cast by the moon behind the clouds.
A flash of lightning crackled overhead, illuminating the darkness briefly before being snuffed out by a thunderous peal. Serrandyl stared up at the sky for a moment, the smell of ozone heavy on the air—her feline ears perked up and her eyes widened. A shiver ran down her spine, her tail flicking as she squinted at the sky. This didn't feel like a normal storm...
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The storm hit the village with the ferocity of a wounded beast. Rain lashed down in relentless torrents, hammering the thatched roofs and turning the dirt trails into rivers of mud. Lightning scored the heavens, illuminating the village in flashes of stark, ethereal white, and the accompanying thunder was a drumbeat of doom echoing through the forest.
Trees around the village swayed violently, their verdant canopy in a constant shiver, and branches fell from their trunks in great sweeping arcs that crackled as they struck the ground. The air hummed with an untamed energy, and the earth itself seemed to groan under the force of the tempest.
Ebonheim watched the tempest unfold from the soaked sheets of her cot—her thatched roof already tumbling down in a heap of broken beams and splintered wood—her hair plastered to her skin like strands of seaweed. As the rain beat against her hut, she sat in silence, a dazed expression on her face as she held onto her bedding for dear life.
"Why?" she asked the tumultuous sky above her. "Why are you like this?"
Outside her hut, the earth rumbled with a low growl, and the skies burst open with a deafening roar of lightning and thunder. With a curse, she threw her soaked blanket to the side and marched towards her front door. It creaked and groaned as she approached—then it gave way to the storm, ripped away from its hinges, and flew towards her.
"What in the—?" The door slammed on her, sending her sprawling onto the ground as she collapsed under its weight. She groaned and stared at the door for a moment, dumbfounded, before gathering her wits about her and forcing herself to her feet.
Rain lashed against her iridescent hair, the droplets kissing her olive skin as they slipped down to mingle with the damp earth beneath her feet. Her silken white dress, billowing in the gale, was soaked through.
A blast of frigid air swept through as she exited her hut and began to survey the damage. "This can't be good," she said to herself as she gazed around the village.
In the village's heart, where the feast hall and craft buildings clustered together in an act of communal solidarity, the villagers gathered. Lanterns flickered, casting trembling light on the anxious faces of men, women, and beastkin. Engin, his peppered beard slicked to his jaw, was at the forefront marshaling the villagers, shouting orders over the din of the storm to secure loose items and fortify their dwellings as best they could.
Her villagers, hardy and resilient though they were, struggled to withstand the onslaught of the elements; their clothes were soaked through and they trembled with cold as they fought to complete their tasks. Young and old worked side by side, piling up whatever they could find—tables, barrels, crates—against the ingress points, their determined faces mirroring the storm's intensity.
Children clung to their mothers, eyes wide with fear, as the adults worked with frantic energy. Bjorn and Thorsten, usually the picture of indomitable strength, struggled to maintain control, their brows furrowed and clothes drenched. Even the beastkins, with their primal connection to nature, were unsettled.
Ebonheim's eyes shimmered as she activated her Divine Sight.
Powerful fluctuations coursed through the air around her—torrents of elemental energy poured from the heavens, merging and churning within her domain, creating a turbulent reaction between the two.
A grimace formed on her face as she continued to stare up at the sky, watching as the swirling clouds grew ever more frenzied, their violent dance drawing ever closer to the ground. Lightning sizzled overhead, a boom of thunder following soon after, and the tempest raged on, its ferocity intensifying by the second.
"What's happening?..."