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The gathering of ethereal women came to life, a wave of eager anticipation sweeping across their ghostly assembly. From their midst, one strode forward, her hands cradling a chalice that seemed to be etched from the very essence of spring—its form was a network of translucent, crystalline leaves shimmering with a verdant glow. She stepped with purpose toward the spectral grove, towards an otherworldly tree, and lifted its slender limb as if summoning power from within it.
There, bound to the phantom bark in an embrace of both resignation and rebellion, was a young girl whose eyes danced with both fear and unyielding courage. The chalice bearer held aloft a fragment of jade, sharp and clear as truth itself, and with it she carved an intricate pattern into the tree's surface. From the depths of this freshly etched groove emerged a nectar that held the soft glow of moonlight through fog—silvery and luminescent—it cascaded into the chalice until it brimmed with magical essence.
By Morrigan's side stood another figure who wrapped her fingers around the sap-filled cleft in the tree. A gentle touch was all it took; upon her withdrawal, the tree's weeping ceased. The girl was released from her arboreal prison.
“The affliction has been mended,” murmured the woman in tones that carried the weight of ancient forests. “This was your burden to bear, young sister. The scar will seal itself. The recollection will wane like mist at dawn.”
With tenderness, she extended the now filled chalice towards the girl whose vitality had begun to dwindle. Eager lips met the cup’s rim as she drank voraciously from its contents—the draught that housed life itself. Drop by drop, vitality surged back into her veins; her gaze shed its foggy curtain to reveal eyes sparkling with newfound lucidity. Her lips flushed with the healthy redness of life, regaining their natural hue as strength suffused her being in waves of rejuvenating warmth.
"Sing out, my sisters," she commanded with a sharp edge to her voice. "Let your dance charm the air around us, sisters!"
As Morrigan wandered through the veils of mist, the same chant he had faintly caught before swelled up around him once again. The words remained elusive, blending into the background, yet the message pulsed through the air with clarity: it spoke of spring's revival, the jubilant climb of lifeblood within the network of forest veins, buds erupting into existence, leaves unfurling from their emerald cradles; it reveled in trees swaying to the alluring dance of Spring's fragrant breezes; it echoed with rain's rhythmic percussion on a green canopy; it hummed with the zeal of the summer's sun flooding every woodland crevice; it venerated the lunar glide through night skies and trees stretching towards its argent touch; it was a tribute to wild gusts that roamed between trunks and branches—every note woven into this melody painted scenes that dwelt beyond human comprehension.
The beings before Morrigan danced with moves that spoke of eternity, an ancient choreography born from a world both timeless and palpably present.
Caught in their spell, Morrigan sensed reality peeling away from him, his thoughts entangled in an alluring snare spun from pure forest magic.
A soft touch upon his arm brought his gaze to the woman at his side. She directed his attention back to a frail-looking girl.
"Yet amidst all this vigor, she fades," she stated somberly. "Our vitality has no power here; even if we funneled it straight into her being, salvation would elude her."
Morrigan witnessed the girl's essence slipping away once more, her vibrant color draining from her once rose-kissed lips, the spark that animated her eyes flickering out. An inner storm of empathy and rage swelled within him. Dropping to his knees, he enveloped her hands within the warmth of his own.
"Get them off! Your hands—they're burning me!" she screamed, tormented.
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"He's only trying to help," assured the man dressed in hues of the forest, his voice a soothing whisper. Yet, with careful respect, he coaxed Morrigan's hands to release hers.
"Your intentions are noble, but your methods won't suffice," the woman elaborated with gentle firmness.
Desperation edged into Morrigan’s voice as he rose to his feet. "What can I do? Please, tell me how I can save her?"
In that moment, the rhythmic chant ceased, and dancers froze mid-step. Silence wrapped around them like a shroud, and Morrigan sensed the heavy anticipation in their watchful eyes as they turned towards him. The woman reached out and took his hands in hers—her touch was like the cool relief of a shadow on a blistering day, instilling within him a strange yet revitalizing sweetness.
"She pointed towards the distance with a sense of urgency, her voice weaving its way through the hushed anticipation. 'There's a trio of men out there,' she declared, sharp-eyed and serious. 'They're not fans of our kind—fear and loathing courses through their veins. If we let their animosity win, we'll be nothing but dust and echoes before long. They've sworn to erase us from existence, and they're not the kind to break their words. That is unless...' Her voice trailed off and a chill snaked its way down Morrigan's spine.
The atmosphere shifted; even the tiny flecks of light in her eyes danced differently, igniting into a crimson shimmer that invoked primal fears deep within him.
'Three men?' he pondered out loud, his mind shrouded in a fog of disbelief, while shards of memories pieced themselves together—Valeran and his offsprings. 'Only three men,' he repeated, his voice tinged with doubt. 'How can a mere trio pose such an existential threat? What sort of mystical force could possibly empower them against your resilient people?'
With a gentle yet firm shake of her head, her face etched with solemn lines, she corrected him. 'Strength of arms is futile here—neither ours nor anyone's will make the difference. We've known seasons flush with joy, but now we tread in an age where dread clings to our every step like shadows at dusk. Their purpose is clear—they aim for devastation, obliteration. Our elders have spoken; even they find themselves outmatched and cannot deter the catastrophe that looms. These men command the artistry of swordplay and command fire as if it were a tame beast. Against such skill and sorcery combined, our defenses falter.'"
"As one, they chanted, 'Blade and fire!' There we stood, starkly vulnerable to the onslaught of steel and flame."
"Our fate seems sealed," she murmured with a heavy heart. "We'll all decay, crumble into nothingness like her, or be devoured by the inferno—if an escape eludes us."
In a fluid motion teeming with urgency, she entwined herself with Morrigan, their figures merging into one. Their lips collided in a desperate kiss that kindled an inferno of unearthly yearning within him. He responded in kind, his arms ensnaring her—pulling her essence tightly against him.
"You will not fall to ruin!" he proclaimed fiercely, his pledge ringing with ardor. "By the stars above us, your light will not be extinguished!"
She drew back a fraction, gazing deeply into his essence as if to convey an unspoken truth.
"They've vowed our end," she pronounced gravely. "With relentless blade and fire, their intent is clear—they aim to erase our existence—these merciless three—unless—"
"Unless what?" he interjected urgently, his spirit alight with a primal need to shield her.
"Unless you halt their advance—end them before they can do the same," she announced.
A chilling epiphany snuffed out Morrigan's blaze of passion as if doused by the coldest of water. He withdrew his embrace, stepping away in dawning realization and terror. She stood before him briefly—a flicker of uncertainty—and spoke softly but with gravity: "End them," she implored with her final breath—and then she was no more than a wisp on the wind.
The shadows of the trees danced, solidifying as the realm of spirits retreated into obscurity. The ghostly luminescence ebbed away, and with it, reality seemed to dissolve, leaving Morrigan trapped in an unsettling limbo. He shut his eyes, seeking refuge from the bewildering shift, and upon reopening them, discovered that the uncanny illusion had dissipated.
Morrigan now found himself on the fringe of the thicket, void of the spectral ballet and its otherworldly inhabitants. The moss underfoot was just ordinary greenery now, and the once shimmering ground, speckled with tiny bluet flowers, was relegated to a fading daydream. Firm birches and firs stood sentry around him—singular and definable. Off to one side, a fir tree cradled a damaged birch—a testament to the destructive legacy left by Valeran's men. For a moment, Morrigan's eyes captured the fleeting visage of a figure dressed in forest greens entwined with that of a disappearing girl among the arboreal tapestry—in their entity inseparable from the woodlands themselves. But swiftly, stark reality surged back into focus. There he was alone, his palms feeling the reassuring chill of another birch's bark close by.