Singers of the Dawngrove (IC)

[Palanan]

A flight of golden sabrewings dances on the morning air, far above the grassy mound and its slim jade banners, yet far and far below the emerald canopy holding up the sky.

Beneath the colossal crown-branches, spreading wide to support the all-shading canopy, the great causeway-vines sweep through the immense open space—reaching from titan-branch to titan-branch, each a bright ribbon of forest spanning the open air, lushly grown with trees and tree-ferns, trailing a shaggy fringe of whispering-moss, airdrinker roots, and diaphanous stonewort veils.

Narrow footbridges wind among the upper trees of the causeway-vines, running above the footpaths slipping through the riot of undergrowth, while the great whale-sloths make their deliberate way along the underside, clawed arm over clawed arm, suspended above the hollow void with passengers dozing comfortably in the shaggy fur of their great warm bellies.

The ponderous whale-sloths are for those making leisurely journeys between the titan-trunks, content to travel beneath the causeway-vines as they curve through great cathedrals of shadowed sky: a cat’s-crade of forest-threads draped between immense branches, those watered by sinuous ribbon-lakes on their upper surfaces, with small fishing villages perched along their low bark banks.

Around the causeway-vines swirl tiny motes, fragile seedwings that flit and loop and dive, nimble gliders for those who prefer a quicker passage between the titan-trunks—now dancing up to hang in midair, pivoting sideways on a wing, nosing toward the rumpled plain of spidermounds far and far below, streaking down until their fragile trailing vanes flutter and tremble with their speed, pulling up at the last instant to bank and swerve among the sharp tips of the bannerleaf spires, indulging in a brief steeplechase above the spidermounds before nosing up, ascending with the last of their momentum and skimming higher into the rough terrain of the rising titan-roots.

Far above the roots and trunks, above the crown-branches and the canopy rippling like a faraway ocean, glimpsed through rare gaps between neighboring canopies, the nearest of the spire-trees sends its bone-white needle to pierce the uppermost sky itself, the thin plume at its tip wavering into the east with the prevailing high-altitude winds. But here below on the spidermound, the wandering breezes owe allegiance to no cardinal point, much like those who have gathered here this morning.

The far-faring visitors—emissaries, delegates, unexpected wanderers—have spent their first night recovering from their long journeys, a night free of questions or intrusions on their weariness; and now, after a modest morning meal, they have been guided here, spaced around a small pond at the high heart of the spidermound, where they have taken seats in the moss amid the grasses and ferns, beneath the jade banner-leaves. In the clear waters of the pond a slender shape reclines, long hair floating like billows of white silk, a witness for the naiads and sundry water-folk.

All about the seated visitors, across the broad shallow dome of the spidermound, pale gray-green stalks rise up through the thick midsummer grasses, reaching above the maidenberries and the whisperleaf shrubs, each stalk swelling into a sphere of white tufts at twice a sylph’s height. Now and again a tuft slips free on a promising zephyr, its lean snapfins jolting it upward in quick spurts, higher and ever higher, straining to catch firmer currents somewhere far above, to ride them to hope and promise beneath far-distant canopies.

Once the last of the stalks has bloomed out, the last of the white tufts snapping free, it will be time for the spidermound to begin a measured amble on its ring of stocky, braided roots, stepping across the dense undergrowth of fungi and gloomleaves, joining the slow march of other spidermounds under the steady guidance of an experienced Singer.

Continuity, and the cusp of change. New life surging through the air, even as old life returns to the earth in the dank shadows beneath the spidermound’s dome.

An auspicious place, for such a gathering of travelers; and bearing within it the hope that whatever tidings they may bring, whatever changes their appearance may presage, may also have their proper place in the cycles within cycles of the eternal Dawngrove.

Now the first courtesies have been made, brief blessings upon their meeting offered; and the morning hospitality provided, as a bustle of lilac flitknots hop and dart and clamber about the persons of the visitors, nipping at their skin, nimble beaks burrowing with practiced expertise through hair and fur, within and beneath folds of clothing, digging industriously after tiny creatures and scraps of skin and hide, clinging with tiny clawed feet until the guests are thoroughly worked over, and the flitknots rise up in an excitable flurry, one last straggler plucking a few tufts of gnoll-fur for her nest until she too flurries away.

Then a silver chalice is brought forth, deep and cold with figures of sea-beasts and horned gods cleverly worked into its sides; and a murmured libation is poured upon a carved stone disc set into the mossy bank of the pond, a consideration for the spirits of the spidermound, watching shyly from within thick clumps of feathergrass nearby.

Custom obliges the chalice to be passed around, that each of those gathered here might savor the cool tea with its heavy green leaves in appreciative silence, in order for each far-farer to settle his or her thoughts, and prepare to listen deeply and carefully as well as to speak.

Golden-eyed Asavati, having poured the libation, now holds the chalice to her lips, drinks carefully and long, and then reaches over to hand the chalice to the slight young woman on her left, nodding wordlessly as she does so, gentle sign of acceptance and respect.

[robnar]

Cold Wind

Cold Wind entered the vast theater of life with the same sense of childlike awe that he had the first time. He had been home in the plains for a few months, running with the packs of the vast veldt and watching the herds and visiting the stones. Back home, life was scared and hard. It clung to the ground and hid in the shadows or behind other life. The grass was sharp, the trees dense, and the other life watched jealously for something to venture out just far enough to get picked off. Here... here was different.

He ran his hand over the top of the dense grass as he walked towards the circle, and jubilant little bugs swarmed off it to come visit him. He slurped a couple of them off his fingers and enjoyed the crunch. Here, life poured off other life in turn, up to the heavens and down through the soil.

He always felt a little out of place here. The fine steel robes that he'd pulled off that sparkly knight a while back contrasted sharply with the floral crowns and lacy gowns of vines of the rest. They seemed to frolic in the abundance of this place; he watched it with both wonder at the beauty and expectant dread for the teeth and claws to streak out from the grass. His instinct was to slink low and circle; but today he stood tall and strode.

He was dressed traditionally for the audience - leather robes, knotted with bones and stained with patterns of berry dye and blood. A tooth from a river cow as a broach. He wore the ugly, sharp, notched slab of metal that he called a sword over his shoulder, knotted into its leather scabbard with a strip of ribbon. He waited restlessly, impatient for the formalities to end, for he brimmed with purpose and tidings of import.

[Genth]

Gallimaria

Around one of the seated visitors, a soft melody can be heard, a gentle strumming of strings against living wood. Upon a whorl of underwood, sits the Oathkeeper of the Fey Circles, Gallimaria. The Gathlain is youthful in her appearance, small compared to most of the other druids gathered here, only about three feet tall, but with the poise and confidence of even the greatest elven princesses. She is dressed today in a simple, light dress of white spiders silk, adorned with vines wrapped around her arms and wrists, blossoming with intensely purple blooms and exuding a sweet floral scent. From her back emerge a set of Rose-Petal wings, changing from a pale, sun-bright yellow at the base to a deep blood-red at the ends, occasionally flapping in the warm air. As the meeting is called to order and the chalice begins its journey around the circle, Gallimaria is studying a butterfly that had landed upon her finger, her bright, ivy-green eyes sparkling in the light of the grove as she looks over the delicate membrane of the insect's wings, a soft smile on her lips. The butterfly flits away as the other insects do, and she straightens herself upon the small mound she sits upon. As the chalice comes her way, she takes it in both hands, the cup very large in her small frame. Carefully, she lifts it and takes a small tip of the tea, letting out a small breath that makes the surface of the drink ripple as she passes it on to the next person.

[Feathersnow]

Ereekah
The next to take the chalice is a shorty, stocky woman, of clearly Orcish extraction. Her wide eyes, huge ears, and tilted, snub nose seem to hint at the mark of the were-bat. To the dismay of some of the more reserved peoples of more well-lit lands, she took the Circle of Night's customary vow of nudity: to symbolize her complete commitment to the fight against nature's enemies, she will wear no cloth nor carry any weapon, save those necessary to the effort.

But she is far from unadorned. Her body is covered in ritual scars, easier to give to those with rapid healing, and she is positively slathered in complex bodypaint, as brigh is and vibrant as her homeland is not.

In her hand, she cradles a magic talisman. It is her dire bat partner, as close as a lover and perhaps more, shrunkem and in a dormant state so he can be here. Like all bats, the two of them cannot stand to be alone.

She takes the chalice, quaffs heartily, and passes it on.

[Da'Shain]

Aurelia

Accepting the chalice from the muscled orcish woman warily, a lithely built human woman of slightly above-average height glances about at the others for a moment, hunched over where she sits cross-legged, before taking a short sip from it, eyes open and darting the entire time. Seeming to notice her own unease, she takes a long, slow breath before straightening and taking another, slightly longer sip, allowing her eyelids to fall closed for a moment as she leans her head back.

The struggle with her own antisocial instincts is more than a decade old at this point, and yet unfamiliar situations still manage to put her back up; with clearly conscious effort, she relaxes her shoulders. Tangled brown hair falls unbound down her back and across the front of her shadowy gray silken robes, spots of dirt and tufts of grass marring the well-worn fabric. To her side, a palm-sized mottled green scorpion stalks through the moss almost playfully in search of a possible meal, before darting instinctively out of the way as Aurelia Tsuika leans over it to pass the ornate goblet back to their host with a curt nod. She settles back down into a looser, less hostile mien, with eyes and ears peeled.

[Palanan]

After Aurelia sips from the chalice, there is yet one more among their number arrayed around the pond, whose like none of the travelers has ever seen before.

Lean and tall she would be, if not seated crosslegged as she is, with long straight hair like a great sweep of obsidian filaments, together tinged with the deepest green of evening-shadowed forest groves.

Her face and form are of some lighter shade, the soft green of new leaves in morning sunlight, vivid and translucent at once; and she is clad in some tough grey-green material, like cloth of lichen-weave—if cloth it is, and not a second skin, so smoothly does it cleave to her form. Her feet are long and bare, with toes that might almost be short fingers, and she carries no weapon nor any tool.

She takes the chalice from Aurelia, brings it to her lips, —might have tasted it fleetingly, and then passes it on, glancing slowly around their circle with eyes like wet amber, bearing countless flecks of gold.

Asavati accepts the chalice from the slim jade fingers, pours a closing libation upon the sunstone, and sets the chalice aside. She is crosslegged as well, poised upon the moss beside the modest pond, with her miniature dragon Moonspark curled in the hollow of her lap, lean head on smooth-scaled paws, butterfly wings folded along his back.

For a long moment there is only the soft dry buzz of grasshoppers all around, the wet chipping of a marbled warbler, the pok-pok of tinker-frogs from hiding-places at other nearby ponds.

“Welcome and well-met again,” Asavati says at last. “Now we are come to the moment for which you have all journeyed here. You are all known to me,” she continues, “but not, I think, to each other. Speak your names, your circles and your hearts, and you shall all be heard, each in full measure, and then together we shall decide what it is that must be done.”

[robnar]

Cold Wind

Cold Wind boils with impatience at the formalities; he has purpose, and he needs to speak his purpose. He respects the singers for their knowledge, but chafes at the overblown rituals like he chafes at the flitknot scratching the fur on his left shoulder.

When the time comes he bats the little bird away, and stands. His words start low, clear, but his voice fills the grove as that of a great orator.

"I am a cold wind over dried bones, and I speak now for the people of the plains and our circles of stone. Stones that have been pushed over and defiled by a pestilent herd that swarms over the terrain like the locust.

Not like the locust. Locusts destroy everything; and the seeds that remain grow back new and stronger. This herd cuts the land and twists it to their purposes. It comes in numbers like a swarm of locusts, but with purpose, and memory, and organization, and power.

And it flees an even greater force.

This is more than a threat to my people. This is a warning, of the force driving these orcs into my plains. That is a threat to each of our circles. I issue this warning here - I will fight the near threat, but we all must look to the far threat. Those here who will join me to drive these orcs away will share with me the opportunity to confront that greater force, and judge how to protect our circles from it.

He pauses at the end, in the sudden silence of his final booming sentences. Then he turns, and strides back into the crowd.

[Genth]

The small, delicate Gathlain inclines her head to the returning Gnoll, and stands for her turn next, rising to her feet and letting her wings flutter, lifting up and forwards into the grand circle. She bows her head to Asavati, then to the circle in general.

"I am Gallimaria, Seven Hundreth and Seventy Eighth Oathkeeper of the Circles Blooming, Servent and Voice of the Nobility Fair, Denizen of the Sweet Spring Palace, and Ambassador of the Folk." She says, her voice light but loud, carrying into all corners of the gathering. She is clearly quite used to this form of public address, her tone lilting and slightly captivating.

"I have come bearing news of a worrying curse within my home. The spring, which has flowed pure and sweet for living and non-living memory, giving life and beauty to everything within our lands, has come under some terrible malady. The water remains clear, but it has turned cold, and no plant or animal can derive life from it. The quality of life itself seems to have been strained from the water. Learned minds have examined the waters, but none have been able to speak the true nature of the curse nor the ways it might be reversed. I have come to seek the fulfillment of oaths taken, promises of mutual aid and assistance in times of trial. I ask now of the circles gathered here to hold to those oaths, and render what assistance and knowledge they can against this dark turn of events."

Gallimaria pauses for a few moments after giving her explanation, eyes flitting across the crowd to guage their reactions. "I thank our host, the Lady Asavati for the time within this space. I also give thanks to all for your kind ears, and give hope that your hearts will prove equally open." she says, giving one final bow, and flying back to her place.

[Feathersnow]

"I am Ereekah, Huntress of the Circle of Night" says the squat Bloodmarked. "There is peace and prosperity in the deep roots of the Dawngrove. The monsters I am trained to hunt are dead or gone to ground." She sighs and pauses

"This is a problem. Without an external threat, the power of The Circle of Night to bring unity and enforce peace among the tribes of the roots is diminishing by the day. Civil war may be on the horizon. So, rather than see sister fight brother, I was sent to find an enemy and launch a crusade."

She looks down, ashamed to have to admit this failure of her culture, awaiting a response.

[Da'Shain]

After listening intently to the others' issues, her brow raising slightly at Cold Wind's description of locust swarms but smoothing as the gnoll clarifies himself, Aurelia determines it is her time to speak and stands, taking a moment to center herself, fighting down the ever-present notion that she doesn't belong here, as she smooths down her robes. She forces herself to look around the circle, not just at their host, her brown-eyed gaze serious and exacting.

"I am Aurelia Tsuika, singer for the Circle of Chitin, and I have journeyed here to seek the wisdom of those whose circles have stood the test of time. The humans and dwarves encroaching on lands near our swamp have declared us anathema to their ... religion," she sneers with derision at the word, as her own experiences with other humans suggest it is nothing more than a thin veneer of civility stretched over their naked hunger for new lands and territory, "and seek to eradicate us due to our affinity with arthropods, paying adventurers to search for our dwellings and burn them out."

Aurelia hesitates for a moment, then plows on. "They blame us for recent crop failures, pestilences, and infestations, and it is here that my true issue resides. While I am certain these accusations were not true to begin with, I have discovered several of my druids have indeed begun doing exactly that since our troubles with the settlers began, and more than half of my circle supports them in this endeavor, in essentially going to war. I am ... worried that the impetuousness of my colony, the lack of patience and foresight, will make it impossible for us to continue as our own circle without earning the ire of every one of our neighbors." She glares around the circle, but her anger, unfocused in the now as it is, is clearly not for them but for herself. "I fear I am leading them down the wrong path, and seek guidance in how to right it." After standing for another moment, she retreats and sits cross-legged once more, her expression and breathing far too even to not be tightly controlled.

[Palanan]

Asavati allows a long silence after the last of the travelers has spoken, and then leans forward slightly in the moss.

“You have each heard the tidings that the others have brought,” she says, “and you know somewhat of the troubles of other circles.

“So I ask each of you this: having heard these things, what would each of you counsel?”

[Feathersnow]

"For myself, I would pledge the might of the Circle of Night to stand with the Circle of Chitin, but I am cognizant this may not be what our sister Aurelia wishes"

[Da'Shain]

"I thank you, Huntress Ereekah," Aurelia says formally, "but you see to the heart of the matter: such an intervention would, I think, only exacerbate matters, if not now then in the future."

She turns to Cold Wind. "However, I believe we may both be of help to the Circle of Stone. Our respective circles require outlets for aggression, it seems, something that the invasion of Orcs onto your lands may serve to quench, even as we seek to find out what drives the invaders to fight so hard. I could possibly take most of those wishing to fight away from our lands and bring them as reinforcements to yours, Cold Wind, while the cooler heads remain in our swamp to attempt reasoning with our own neighbors. With my guidance from afar, this might also serve to train the ones I leave behind as my eventual successors."

To Gallimaria, she shakes her head. "However, I have little to offer currently for the curse you describe, Oathkeeper, save a promise of support. Our own magical knowledge lacks in experience what we make up for in enthusiasm, but if we can help, of course we would hold to the ancient obligations." She speaks with frankness, but to those of older circles, her meaning is likely clear: she intends her relatively newborn circle to both honor those oaths of mutual aid and benefit from them.

[Genth]

Gallimaria allows the others to speak before she stands, quiet and listening with an intent expression. When she speaks, it is with a soft, yet carrying voice.
"We each stand against quite different enemies and threats, it would seem, but as with the cycle of sunlight through the plants, to the animals, to the carnivores, and to the carrion, each one fits with the other." She looks to Cold Wind "The Circle of Stone faces an enemy as inevitable as the seasons, unable to be met by words, only fed with violence. The Circle of Night starves in the lack of violence, threatened by its own cannibalistic hunger. The Circle of Chitin is threatened by ignorance, by a lack of words which begats violence. And the Four-Part Clover-Circle of the Ancient Nobility is threatened by something unknowable, insidious and cold."
She takes a step forwards, letting a breath of wind lift her into the air as she holds out two hands, fingers splayed, and slowly moves them together.
"The key is to understand the interlocking pieces. The Circle of Chitin has an advantage that others do not, Aurelia, that your worlds are ones of minutiae and cycles. I believe that should one of your more learned bretheren travel within the cold waters, they will find passages we know not, and perhaps find the source of our Woe. As has been said before, the Circle of Night's plight fits neatly within the Circle of Stone's need. My own abilties of oaths and words can be of help to the Circle of Chitin's plight. And as Cold Wind observes, these problems are shadows of a far threat. Everything is connected: The Stones, the Night, the Insects, and the Words, and so are the issues that threaten our harmonies."

[robnar]

Cold Wind paced while the others spoke, nervous energy spilling off of him. But he did not interrupt, and his eyes stayed locked on the speakers as they said their problems, and their solutions, to the council.

He had dreaded this moment - he had seen some councils dissolve into meaningless chatter or stray into irrelevance like a child separated from the herd. But he was surprised to hear meaningful suggestions from the others assembled. He paced a few moments more, listening, thinking.

Then the energy came back and he strode forward. "The need of the plains people is imminent and urgent. The lesser threat, these orcs, come with numbers and organization, but the plains are vast. If we kill the ram the sheep will scatter - if we blunt their advance and keep them from a foothold they will not push forward to the greater stone circles and the weaker plains tribes will shy away from their pack."

"Ereekah of Night, I believe this is a worthy crusade. If it answers your need, then we will gladly welcome you to our hunt. Similarly, Chitin, if you have hunters seeking the wrong prey we can use their efforts. In addition, perhaps we can divert some of the Human adventurers seeking after your own kind."

"Gallimara of Blooming, I have no remedy for your ills; but the turning of a spring speaks of omen, and these are ominous times. If these omens are connected as you believe then it is time to eat heartily and get fat for the winter, for we are approaching years of famine and dust and salt. And we are not ready."

[Palanan]

An uncommonly long silence settles over the warm grasses of the spidermound, stretching thin for well after Cold Wind concludes the harsh poetry of his warning.

The circle considers those words, waiting for another to speak; and finally, perhaps at some subtle signal from Asavati, the leaf-green woman unfolds in a strangely fluid motion, the long toes of her feet gripping the moss beneath.

“I am Tseu’et of the Deeping-Grove, the hidden heart of the First Wood beyond the great ring of mountains to the north. I am not of your kind, nor of any kind; I am all that there is of myself, and yet I speak for the multitudes that are woven together into the First Wood. I am the first of myself to be sent out, for reasons which the First Wood may only speak through me.

“I speak, and also I listen: for I have heard all that has been said here, and much more unsaid. And it seems there is a greater purpose than even the First Wood knows, that I should be sent to you now of all times, in this season of all seasons. I will speak more of that anon.

“But first,” and she turns to Gallimaria, “the weave of the First Wood runs deep as well as broad, and beneath its many layers my roots run deeper still, into the very foundations of the world; and there far below they are braided together with many things which are not known here above, but which have their own weavings and secret ways.

“I shall send äshenäkki-ikûl to the deepest-weave, bän-ikûl of this council and the tidings you bring of the water whose soul has been poisoned. Either it has been afflicted from above or from below; and if from below, my roots and their binding filaments shall seek out the cause.

“As for the other matters which have been spoken of here—the First Wood knows something of these as well, for we have tasted strange pollens and fine ash brought on distant winds, and I have scented foul fumes and vapors mingled among them, and worse things for which I have no name. There is a new race of creatures which stirs and builds and burns—” and here she turns to Aurelia— “and they are of your kind.”

[Genth]

Gallimaria bows her head in thanks to Tseu'et, a warm smile on her features. "You have both my gratitude, and the gratitude of the Noble Ones. The First Wood shows its compassion through your deeds. Should the water's curse be lifted, on behalf of the Four-Part-Circle I swear that the First Wood shall recieve a return of suitable generosity - ten years and one day of moon-blessed waters to make flowers bloom and seeds spread wide." she says, a slight thrum of music, just on the edge of hearing, punctuating that oath. She brushes a stray strand of hair from her features as she considers the next part of the green lady's words. "Do you suggest, Green-Speaker, that this stirring and burning is done by the same hand in all lands?"

[robnar]

Cold Wind rudely interrupts when Gallimara finishes. "We don't need suggestions. We need facts. And we need a decision to take action. First Wood, or anyone else, if you know the nature of this threat then state it. Otherwise we need to stop talking about it and find out what we don't know."

[Genth]

"When facts are unavailable, Cold Wind, you must rely on clues and conjecture." Gallimaria responds. "If there is a common cause we likely cannot know for sure, but must follow trails and half-there scents. Action is needed, yes, you are correct. But we can base our actions on as much as possible, rather than limit ourselves to just the proverbial blood on the grass."

[Palanan]

They had first come in a distant age. Long centuries past—an eyeblink to the Dawngrove, an eternity for those who lived within it—they had come from beyond the western savannas, beyond the shores of the Glitterswell, from some unknown realm across the great ocean that reached into the endless horizon of sunset and night’s last refuge.

They were a strange race, like and yet unlike any that lived within the many lands of the Dawngrove. They were weaker than orcs, leaner and more cunning; they had none of the grace of sylphs, nor the transcendent serenity of the heaven-touched. They were taller than the Stout Folk, taller still than the halflings, yet not so tall as the istherai who strode tirelessly through the savannas. They had not the gentle toughness of the oreads, nor the merry abandon of the fey; and yet they had a touch of the qualities of each of the Dawngrove’s races, if nothing in full measure, save only greed and cruelty.

And they wanted more.

They came upon the shores of the Glitterswell in great numbers and greater arrogance, and they cut through the ancient coastal outriders of the Dawngrove like sawflies through young pine. They knew no rituals save to their own distant gods, no propitiations other than to their own warlords and tyrants; they knew nothing of the Great Will and paid no heed to its emissaries. They scoffed at the oreads who came to reason, and at the istherai who came to sing; and when the deep circles sent their Oathkeeper to welcome and treat with them, the new race demonstrated their cruel ingenuity with fire and wicked devices.

And still they came, and still they spread, burning and hewing, striking down the coastal Groves to build thin mockeries of structures after their own fashion, sprawling hives of slaughtered wood and uptorn stone. And the Great Will saw that they must be ended before their dominion brought about the ruin of all the Dawngrove, and all the wonders within, both seen and unseen; and so the Dawngrove was roused and fought back.

And the Dawngrove learned that this new race was not so young when it came to war, and they had many mechanisms and stratagems to broaden and prolong the strife, such that for many years all the land between the Glitterswell and the Lattice seemed to be endlessly ablaze. And such was the savagery that many Groves were destroyed out of utter spite, and in the worst heat of the war the heartlands of the western savannas were burned to grey ash and blackened stone, a vast and unhealed wreckage which in later times would be known as the Hellscar.

Then the new race gathered themselves for a final assault; and with fell magics and dire instruments of destruction, and great beasts twisted and bred for war, they struck through the Lattice and into the broad reaches of the Dawngrove, the hallowed inner Groves where no enemy had ever caused such devastation before.

Then all the races of the Dawngrove stood against the invaders, the orcs and the istherai, the oreads and the heaven-touched, the dwarves and the halflings and many others beside; and together they struck against the great spear of the invaders aimed at the heart of the Dawngrove, and at the cost of countless lives they smote apart the vast columns of the invaders, slew them in great numbers even as they were slain themselves, and at last they broke them utterly, such that they threw down their weapons and fled in small companies into the Groves all around, where the most of them were swallowed in the shadows beneath the spidermounds, and only a mere handful of the great invading force remained, unarmed and starving and piteous.

Then the Dawngrove stayed its hand, for the Great Will saw fit to spare these last remnants and survivors; and they were allowed to pass without further harm into the depths of the innermost Dawngrove, where in later days they became scattered tribes who stepped like ghosts and troubled unduly no living thing.

Those of the new race who had remained behind in their half-empty coastal hives, having lost their great engines and much of their lore, were turned out of their homes and made to watch them burn; and they were made also to take a great vow, that they should never again trouble the Dawngrove, nor the Lattice, nor the savannas, nor any other land or realm between the sunrise and the Glitterswell.

Then having taken this vow, they found shelter in kopjes on the savannas and in small Groves in the western lee of the Lattice, and herded and hunted in small numbers; and in the centuries that followed built themselves modest towns, most by springs and small rivers in the savannas, where they felt less fearful, and where from small wooden towers they kept watch across the dry sward, only rarely venturing beyond the Lattice into the deep Dawngrove itself; and they dreaded their cousins the ghost-tribes, whom they whispered had become vessels for angry spirits, and who would surely punish them should the herders and townsfolk ever break their vow.

[Palanan]

All this, then, is in the minds of each of those in the circle, as Tseu’et stands staring at Aurelia with golden-flecked amber eyes.

“And this we fear,” Asavati says at last, “that all of this shall again come to pass.

“There is, we fear, a new race of men who have come across the western ocean to the shores of the Glitterswell—whether to find their cousins of the First Arrival or to conquer them, we do not yet know. But we know they have driven the orcs before them, and that they have arts and mechanisms we cannot divine.

“There is a shadow upon them that we cannot reach through, a haze of mind we cannot penetrate, and there is little more we can learn from afar. There is some power at work which turns our sight aside, and we dare not risk focusing our minds too sharply upon it, lest we allow it to forge a way through our defenses.

“We have sent—quietly—others before now, to seek out what knowledge they can of these new invaders; but none have returned, and we deeply fear what terrible ends they may have met. They were young and bold, not at all novices, and yet their skill and lore availed them not.

“And so this is the burden laid upon me. I cannot ask any of you to undertake such a journey, knowing where it might end—much less to fight, knowing that we gathered here may prove to be the first ember to light a war which will bring about the end of the Dawngrove at last.

“And yet if a war is to come—if a Second Arrival even now gathers its forces to march upon us—it would be better to meet it now, at the shores of the Glitterswell, before the savannas are burned and the Lattice broken again.

“I cannot ask this of any of you; and yet it is my hope, after having heard all that you have said, that some of you will take this freely upon yourselves, and venture into that distant shadow where others have already been lost. For there was a time when all the many peoples of the Dawngrove stood together; and such a time, I fear, may be upon us again.”

[Genth]

Gallimaria frowns, looking down as the sound of War Drums briefly echoes around her hovering form. She looks up towards Asavati, a harrowed look in her eyes as she speaks. "The Second Oath. Of all the Oaths transcribed within the unwritten book, only a few have the power of the Second. And this is what it was sworn against. Tseu’et of the Deeping-Grove, and Golden-Eyed Asavati, you know of the oldest words woven within the Dawngrove. You say that you cannot ask it of us... But you invoke the Second Oath, if not by its words, by its shadow. If what you say is true, and the ones we know as Fohvorroi have returned, then all of the Four-Part Circle is bound to defend the Dawngrove. As the Keeper of the Oaths, both old and new, I am bound to this venture."

[Palanan]

As Gallimaria finishes, Asavati inclines her head. “You bear out the faith placed in you, by your Circle and by other circles, both seen and unseen.

“As for the Second Arrival…we do not know, yet, if these are also Fohvorroi in their shape and their ways, or if they are but cousins—or even if these new folk have conquered the Fohvorroi in their homeland, and taken their machines for some other purpose. It may make no difference in the end—or it may be the finest sliver, finer than the first hint after new moon, that makes the utmost difference to us all.”

And with that, Asavati glances around the rest of the circle, waiting for the others to respond.

[robnar]

Cold Wind pauses his pacing to nod assent. "Let us do it."

His pace slows, from impatient striding to lower slinking.

[Palanan]

Asavati turns to Ereekah and Aurelia.

“Two there are now who are pledged to do this. Will any others join them?”

[Feathersnow]

Ereekah stands "The Circle of Night stands with you!"
She looked resolved yet guilty. She came to find a war, and a war she had found!

[Palanan]

Aurelia has been silent for a long while, a faint frown on her all-too-human features as the talk of Arrivals and Fohvorroi ebbs and flows around her.

Her brows furrow more deeply, as if she is listening to some other exchange which only she can hear; and then she is rising to her feet, the small scorpion suddenly scuttling into her hand, and a great locust snaps and fans its wings, droning heavily into the air above, weaving between the banner-leaves, up through a flight of seedwings, and into the high distance towards the causeway-vines and the immense canopies of emerald sky beyond.

Asavati does not follow the great locust’s flight, but rather stares down into the small pond as if chastened, and says nothing for some time, as if fears only distantly glimpsed were now, suddenly, coming to pass.

[Metastachydium]

Vlk was never quite good at reading others, the complicated language of gestures and posture and the small, subtle distortions of a face, but right now, it is eminently clear even for her that she arrived late. The news that the council is to be convoked reached her slower than she would have hoped and fast as she travels, she could not make up for the time lost. No matter, though. She is here now and for the first time in what seemed to be ages for her, she will speak again, unwelcome as her presence might be.

♣

A soft breeze washes over those standing around the pool as a pale figure clad in modest browns emerges from between the shrubs and stalks and tall grass, striding towards them nimbly and with purpose, quick as the wind itself. Her frame, delicate to the point of fragility, and her white hair flowing in the breeze she seems to have brought herself betray her unearthly lineage to those perceptive enough to pay attention.

Drawing near with a clear expression of displeasure on her face, she bows clumsily to the host of the little gathering. "Lady Asavati." her blue eyes, in the meantime, flash left and right, avoiding the gazes of the others, those that were called here and answered the call. "Whoever you are." she leans forward again, with an equal lack of grace, greeting them with a gesture that somewhat resembles a bow. She feels uneasy around them, and for a good reason. She came uninvited. She's not supposed to be here, and they might be as aware of that as she is. Asavati knows, that much is clear and they might suspect as well. She doesn't recognize any of them either. They might be allies, at long last. They might be more like those elders she turned away from: complacent and cowardly. Regardless, she must speak now, lest all she ever achieved have been in vain.

"I bring you dire news, and we are pressed by time." she begins, resisting the urge to start pacing around those gathered. "I beseech you to listen, just this one time." she shifts her weight nervously from one feet to the other, her fists clenching and unclenching. "Lady Asavati knows for how long I've been fighting my wars and how often I warned the Circles of the storm that comes, but few joined me and my warnings fell on deaf ears." her voice grows louder and stronger as she speaks.

"But times have changed and we may ignore the progeny of the Ravagers no longer. Those that have seen more and heard more than I did tell me that they used to be humble and cautious, but if true, that was long ago. The peace these lands enjoyed let them grow in numbers and so grew their towns and villages and their need for crops and timber to feed themselves and build more dwellings. And so they began to feast on our lands, mowing down the woods before them and picking the ground beneath them clean of life to the last root and the last blade of grass. I long argued that the more land they possess, the more mouths they can feed and yet again, their numbers will grow and their pride and their greed will grow with them and they will set their eyes on the forests to the east once more and they will press forward and deeper and deeper and deeper until they reach the very heart of the Dawngrove." the wind that followed her here grows ever stronger and ever louder as she speaks, rippling the surface of the pool and enveloping the singers gathered in flowing warm air. "I fought them as well as I could, and some have joined me in this vicious, if bloodless fight. We did what could be done to frustrate their efforts, pestering the woodcutters and their beasts of burden, blocking the roads, reminding them of the strength these woods can muster and it seemed that we won. They grow wary of the Dawngrove again and they retreated into their towns and they took their wagons and their tools and their fire with them."

Vlk almost smiles, the anger dissipating from her face as she recounts this, but then it darkens again. "But then, they came back and this time they did not carry tools for felling trees and smashing rocks and disturbing the ground to 'clean' it. Instead, they brought weapons." she takes a few uncertain steps and crosses her arms defensively. Her wind slowly dissipates as well, until what remains is but the gentle breeze she first arrived with. "They are yet to move. But outposts were built and soldiers were marched to where the plains meet the forests, better armed and more disciplined than anything I've seen before. They are ever vigilant, ready but waiting. For what, I do not know. Strange creatures came with them. This worries me. I seeked out Circle of the Thicket for aid, but tame and impotent as ever, they refused to get involved." she sighs and pauses for the first time since she's begun to speak, before adding in a small, almost apologetic voice "I need your help."

[Palanan]

At the moment when Vlk first slipped through the grass to appear by the pool, a low, nondescript rock nearby abruptly unfolded and stood, a stocky form that squarely faced the newcomer, an easy grin on the grey, weatherbeaten face—and yet no smile of welcome.

But a slight gesture from Asavati and the craggy figure remained unmoving, only taut and ready should the moment require.



And now—Asavati has listened to Vlk’s long, strained, impassioned words with a tight mixture of tolerance and resignation—tinged with what, to some, might seem a hint of relief.

And yet, her own words have more than a touch of quiet reproach when she replies. “You were never so much of an outcast as you thought you were, and in truth we never barred you from our circles here—although some other circles may have had cause to disagree with your tactics. —I will not argue with you now; it is not the place, and certainly not the time.

“But you are welcome here now, and we hear your words and all that rests beneath them. You say that you need our help—and here are those who would also have yours. Join us now, and take further counsel with us.”

[Metastachydium]

The shadow of resentment flashes through Vlk's face and she opens her mouth, ready for a retort, only to close it shut again almost immediately. When Asavati reassures her that what she said will not be ignored, she's already nodding along, dropping to a low crouch. "Very well." she says at last. "I thank you for your words of wisdom." there's little conviction to be felt behind her words, but she does her best to make it clear that she accepts the truce. "I will sit with you and listen and speak as needed."