The breeze blew fitfully back and forth across the hillside, unable to pick a direction. Sitting on a boulder was the cloaked and shrouded form of Brer Necholas. From his perch he had a decent view of the surrounding countryside, as far as the Mist would allow. As he sat, his hands calmly ran a rag along the blade of his sword, making sure it was perfectly clean and mirror bright.
"Does that one talk?" asked N'laea as she quietly sat down next to him and nodded at the sword.
Necholas held it out in front of him, twisting it back and forth to look along the blade for any imperfections. "Hmm? Tacharin, talk? *chuckle* No, thankfully. It's just a sword. Ensorcelled, of course, but there's nobody in there. It's very good at listening though. Why do you ask?"
"I had not met a talking sword in over a hundred years. I have met three, now, in a very short amount of time. It is simply on my mind," replied N'laea, shrugging. "How have you been?"
"Hmm. Three of them? Odd..." Finally satisfied with the blade, he quickly reversed it and sheathed it at his side. "Oh, I've been well enough, thanks. No more dragon encounters to speak of. How about you? Fully recovered from your travels beyond our world? Any other excitement?"
"As best I can. It was hard to return from Arvanaith. The others went to Dryads Lair while I took time to reflect," said N'laea, thoughtfully. "Do you often think of where you'll go in Death? Or are you too focused on removing the undead to consider it?"
"Asking the tough questions, I see. Hmm.." He paused for a minute, thinking. "I'm no priest, to argue the ins and outs of the afterlife. There have been moments of doubt, of weakness. I think it's kind of inevitable in every life. And getting back on the Path... it can be hard. I guess... in the end, I just have my Faith, in Lord Ukko, that I'm doing what he commands of me. I don't do it because a priest tells me I'll be rewarded in the afterlife, I do it because I was Called to the task, that I'm doing Ukko's will, and that I'm helping save some innocents from those that hunt them." He shook his head under his cowl and cleared his throat. "I don't know if that made any sense, to an outsider. What is it your Faith has you do?"
"Yes. It is not something I pondered much until I was called to return the cloak to the Goddess. The experience was... unexpected, but I do not suspect I got a full taste of it. I do as I believe Rillifane wants me to do. He did not ask me to remain so I must assume there is more for me to do here." N'laea shrugged, not sure the reason for her question. "It does seem we are being called to the same tasks again. Perhaps it is coincidence, but it is good you will be alongside us again. You are an exceptional fighter. We will need it."
Necholas shrugged. "I appreciate your faith in me. It's a rare enough gift at the best of times. I'm curious though, if you have any thoughts on why they asked for my help? I don't object, but it's very odd. Not many people call on the Order, especially right now."
"You had faith. It has saved us before," replied N'laea with a ghost of a smile. She paused with thought for his other question. "As for why they called you, well, I would say they know your strength in friendship and fight. Branwyn knows what may come may be very dangerous, perhaps the most faced in a long time. She wants to protect all she can, but she needs help doing that. She knows she can count on you for it. Or that is how I see it. Perhaps there is more to it?"
A ghost of a smile played across his face. "Only the gods and Branwyn may truly know. If even she does. Perhaps there are higher forces at work here, perhaps merely mundane." Another pause as he looked around. "What are your thoughts on Jennevieve? Why is she involved in this?"
"She is crafty. I do not trust her, but Branwyn does. Or she at least trusts her to follow through on this adventure," said N'laea before shaking her head. "But one as ambitious as that will one day get bored. Or they will finally get all they need and move on. But she has helped some already, but for what means? Simply putting up a church? I think more is at play."
"She's a schemer. Her involvement could make this whole thing twice as dangerous. I'd be happy if it all turned out to be nothing, but..." His hand gestured outward. "Some people you just don't trust at your back. Maybe you'll be safe, until you aren't."
"Count that as another reason I am glad you are here. If she betrays us, I know you will take care of it," replied N'laea, nearly smiling. "I suppose we will have to wait and see."
Necholas scratched his chin thoughtfully. "Hmmm.... There are two things I wonder. Whose idea was it to open a portal to Hell? And whose idea was it to invite me?"
"Hmm, technically Jennevive and Branwyn for the first, and I believe Branwyn for the second, but I was not involved and cannot confirm," replied N'laea, shrugging. "Opening the portal seemed safer than going straight to Hell itself. After Pandemonium, I do not blame taking that course of action. It is difficult traveling the planes."
Necholas chuckled, "No doubt. I hope I never have to find out for myself. I have enough work to do here and now."
A few minutes passed in companionable silence between the two.
"Oh, I just remembered.... that night, I recall you asking my age, and I didn't know for sure. I hadn't realized how much time had slipped away from me until then. I was curious, and figured it out. I passed 100 a little while back, I believe."
A swirl in the Mist caused a local bright spot, as happened occasionally, sort of the inverse of a cloud passing in front of the sun. Brer looked around them. "As no one seems to be near, do you mind if I...?" and he gestured at his hood. He reached up and pulled his hood back, tilting his badly scarred face up to catch the light, dozens upon dozens of thin white lines visible in the light. His eyepatch was on the other side of his head from her, but the strap that held it in place was still visible.
"It is exceedingly rare for a human to reach such an age," remarked N'laea, eyebrow slightly raised. It stayed there upon seeing the scarring on his face. With much more tact than another not worth mentioning, she simply nodded towards the reveal, saying, "Scars have stories. Those from warriors usually more so. Do you wish to share? It looks like a story worth hearing."
Brer reached up and absently ran a finger along one of the more pronounced scar lines, while still looking up into the sunlight. "It's not all that interesting, really. These are the main thing I wanted Branwyn to erase. Old men are common. Old fighters a bit less so, even injured ones, like my eye. These are pretty much unique; means everywhere I go, anyone who sees them and knows of me knows exactly who I am. As soon as I enter anybody's territory, especially a vamp's, they'll know I'm there. That's why I wear the hood all the time, so I can get some sort of anonymity." He sighed deeply and shook his head. "And all because my visor was up when I got dogpiled by a bunch of skeletons when I was a kid. They couldn't really do much through my armor, but they could reach my face."
Brows now furrowed, N'laea said, "My parents were not the greatest, but I cannot imagine them ever allowing me to be in such a situation as a child. What was a kid doing around skeletons? Training?"
Brer chuckled for several moments. "No. No, sorry. My fault. I didn't mean 'kid' as in 'child', just as in 'young and foolish'. When I was still young and new to my calling. Fresh off the farm. Wet behind the ears." He laughed some more, then continued. "I was squired to ... oh dear, what was his name? Monaghan? We're dredging up old memories here. Anyways, he and I were clearing a necromancer's crypt. The skeletons bum-rushed me and managed to do all of this before he could clear them off of me."
"Ah, that sounds more likely. I will not discount a rash kid, wanting to help, running into a crypt, but those that survive become a rash warrior. That is not you," remarked N'laea, thoughtfully. She laughed slightly. "Although, to call memories from only decades ago old, is odd to me."
N'laea lightly ran a finger under her left eye, along a stemmed leaf of her tattoo, as she said, "We have many similarities, but in those similarities are differences. You have scars you must hide to not be recognized. We use our scars to guide our marks, our tattoos. In the forest, they help us blend in more. Is that why you avoid the sun? It makes you stand out?" She tapped the slight scar, gracefully hidden by the emerald tattoo swirling along her cheek, arching across her eye. "I fell into an ancient patch of greenbrier while chasing down an orc in my early years. Perhaps not as dramatic as skeletons piling on me, but as foolish a mistake as leaving your visor up. At least I kept my eye, although that is assuming how you lost it." She gave him a small smile, a real one. "Plants do not give nice clean cuts, but the scar from the worst of it swirled enough to be drawn into vines. The other scars? They are elsewhere with other stories and tattoos to remember them by."
"But I do wonder, how does one find themselves called to your Order? Most of my clan already follows Rillifane in our own way. He provides our homes and forests. Some go into priesthood, others to fight for him, and others simply keep their traditions and rites to him. Your Order is not quite the same, I do not think."
Necholas shook his head. “No, the eye was much later. A ghost punched me,” he replied nonchalantly. “Everyone’s reasons for joining the Order are different. But we’re all united in our desire to hunt down and destroy the undead. For me, volunteers were requested, and I was one of those that responded.”
He sat there for a moment and stroked his beard, thinking. Once or twice he glanced over at N’laea, considering. Then he said, “You’re an elf. Compared to humans, near enough immortal. Would you mind if I ran some thoughts past you, see what you think? Tell me if I’m on a good path with it or not? You have a perspective I don’t.”
"Eliminating the undead is always a worthy cause," said N'laea in agreement. "I'm neither the oldest nor wisest elf you'll find, but I am happy to assist. I cannot guarantee my perspective will be worth much, though."
Brer began talking, “Thank you. Let’s start with, as I said, as an elf you’re potentially immortal, at least from the human perspective. As such, over the decades, you’ll see generations of the humans around you live and die and be replaced. Now, let me change it so that you’re also completely evil, soulless, selfish, self-centered, and the humans around you are also your food source. So long as you don’t get careless or suffer an accident, you can basically feed and live forever.”
“Now, sometimes the food does try to fight back. Usually you can kill the troublesome one fairly easily, but another option you have is, because you live for so long, you can just hide yourself away for a few decades, and that food will grow too old to resist, or forget about you and go away. Especially when there’s a small group of food that persistently tries to fight back. If you kill one, it just gets replaced.”
“But, among this group is one individual who has, for decades, not been killed, and who doesn’t seem to be aging, and has also managed to slay many others of your peers.”
Brer took a deep breath. “I want to make sure that I’m not succumbing to ego or hubris to think that my arrival in a vampire’s territory worries them, or perhaps even scares them. But even my Brothers don’t have the proper perspective to understand. They’re all just so young, basically children. I have very little in common with them any more, other than the mission.”
"How much is real, and how much is ego?"
"My questions were not nearly as tough as this," replied N'laea, her lips nearly quirking. She turned her face away and up towards the sunlight. "Let me reflect a moment."
Companionable silence once more passed between the two as N'laea carefully considered the perspective Necholas sought, thankful he wasn't one to rush her to answer. There wasn't an easy response, but nor did she expect him to ask her a question with one.
"The passage of time is... complicated," stated N'laea, lightly, after awhile. "A decade is a blink of an eye. Unless it is something that happens directly to you or your clan, the rest does not matter. What human settlements rise or fall mean nothing. They are quick, forgettable, simple ant hills that may be washed away in the next flood. But we do not live in a world of only elves so we must adapt. Either we secret ourselves away in the forest, as my clan does, so time passes as we please, or we find ways to be involved in time with festivals and rites to help us better connect with the cycles and therefore our short-lived peers who may significantly impact our lives."
"In a way, you have answered your own question. One who is selfish and self-centered does not believe there will ever be danger. What happened to others will not happen to them. I have seen this with other clans, the ones who do not patrol their forest, who do not think that forgettable human village nearby will cause them trouble, who invite others to their forest. It does not matter that the village is arming itself, that you lost a few clan members, that it stands the test of time. Those clan members were foolish, but you? You are not. That would never happen to you, the one who has lived too long to remember or the one who has not lived long enough to learn."
She turned to face him, studying him, as she continued, "But if you wish to stand out amongst time, you must be persistent. You must not let them forget you. Do you worry them? It is hard to say. If they are those who do not learn, who think they are above time and death, you simply weeded out the weak. You may be worth a thought, but no more. They do not believe themselves to be the weak ones, but that is an advantage, yes? Their underestimation."
"Is an annoying fly, buzzing along your field of vision something to worry about? Perhaps not until it bites you. I would think," said N'laea, slowly, considering her words. "The smart ones would be worried, that is real, but the foolish would not be - even if they should be."
She sighed, wondering how much to say, staring back at the sunlight, before she added, "For what it is worth, in all my many decades of life, you are one of the most formidable I have come across. I would not want to be your enemy. I have met plenty of warriors, but you are more than one who simply swings a sword. You put much thought, much consideration and determination, into your battles. It is a rare and respectable quality. But I imagine, those who realize it, those on the other side of your sword, do not remain long on this plane."
"As my mentor once told me, if you still occasionally question your skills, you'll never underestimate yourself. If you do not know how much is ego, if it troubles you to wanting to seek another's perspective, then I do not believe you have succumbed to it. I am certain you worry those who are paying attention to you through the fog of time, especially as you persist with time, but I do not believe you worry them all. Not yet. But in another decade or two? As you continue to push the expected bounds of your lifespan? Perhaps."
Necholas nodded. "Thank you. I hoped you might be able to look at it from a different view. Not the evil part, of course, but how they might view me among the short-lived humans. And it's not something I can talk about with my Brother, the young men the Order partners me with. They're too new, too young. It's more important for me to guide them through their initial steps properly, than to worry them with my problems, that they'll likely never have to face. Well, pride is a potential problem, all of the sins are. And it has gotten the better of me a couple of times, I try very hard to keep it at bay. But we're none of us perfect."
He chuckled, "At least, I assume Elves have their own versions of the sins such as Pride."
"I know many languages, but I do not know any translation for Pride into Elvish," remarked N'laea with the slightest smile to indicate a joke. "Tsk, but this is the most I have talked in too long. It hurts the throat. You are good company, though. If you still have thoughts you wish to share today, why not give me your perspective on elves? Can you tell the differences between our kind or have you not met enough in your many years?"
Brer watched as the Mist swirled back around to close the gap in the sky again. In the distance a bird called out. He thought for a few minutes, sorting through his memories. “Most of what I know of elves is probably stories or legend, and what I’ve picked up from being around the small group of you here. Your people are very rare inside the Mists.”
“You all seem … very strong in your faith. I’m afraid I don’t recognize any of the names of your gods, and each of you I think follows someone different. But your faith seems very important to all of you, however differently you express it. That wasn’t something in the stories I’d heard.”
“The elves of tales supposedly are … magical. Capricious. Tricky, untrustworthy. Dealing with an elf can bring wondrous gifts, but often at great cost.”
“Which is, oddly enough, almost the exact same things you hear about fairies. I think maybe somewhere along the way, the old fairy tales got mixed up with tales of elves. I haven’t found any of your kind to be anything like the fairy tales I remember.” Brer stroked his beard contemplatively. “I think I remember tales of changelings, human babies stolen in the night and replaced with elfin children. I wonder what prompted those stories in the first place?”
He shrugged, causing a few clanks as his armor plates shifted under his cloak. “I’m definitely out of my depth there though. The only reason I even know that much of the old tales is from when I gather information, looking for signs of undead in an area. The tales told in an area with some active undead are … slightly different than those told in places that have been clean for a while. If a town storyteller tells more ‘creature in the dark’ or ‘mysterious disappearance’ stories than romance or heroics, then maybe it’s worth spending a bit more time in an area, just in case.”
He pulled out his flask and took a long drink of the water within, before offering it to N’laea. “The stories also tend to all sound alike after awhile, too. Sometimes you can make a good guess as to what kind of undead is the root cause of the problem, just from a tall tale told in a tavern. Although it’s hardly reliable. You definitely don’t want to bet your life on that guess.”
He looked over at her. “Tell me, do the elves have undead too? Or is it purely a human thing?”
"You have simply made me need to consider perspective. Most other elves see my kind as... savage, and I think I have sometimes gone in believing humans think the same. But, perhaps, I need to remember that others may not think much at all of me, although some of your stories may be fanciful depictions of such. Or of Drow, or of other Elves. It is hard to trace stories that have lasted millennia."
N'laea reached over for the flask, grateful for the water, something to sooth her throat. After a moment, she replied, "There is nothing more abhorrent than the undead, but what it does to an elf ...it twists their spirits. Rightfully. So many others do not know what to expect in death, but we know. We know Arvanaith awaits. I told you of my difficulty leaving with just the scent of Arvanaith in the air. To take a soul and completely and utterly deny it rest in Arvanaith? Or reincarnation as another? It is beyond unholy. We do not have just vampires. We have creatures far worse: banshee."
Turning to face him, her tone more serious, as she handed the flask back, she continued, "If you come across an undead elf, the kindest thing to do is to kill them. Feel sorry for them. Only the most twisted in thought will ever choose such a fate as undeath. It seems some humans willingly become vampires. I do not understand it. No elf, in their right mind, would ever choose such a fate. Promise you will not only put them out of their misery, but give them their final rites. And if you find out they chose it? Spit on their grave."
Necholas returned her gaze with his one good eye. “Willingly or unwillingly converted into undead, death is the only mercy to grant them. Pity and pray for those that had it forced on them, but they still need to be eliminated, for their own sake as well as for others. I don’t know much of banshees, only vague rumors. Can you teach me anything about them? The signs to look for, their weaknesses and how to vanquish them, what to protect against?”
N'laea chuckled slightly at his sudden, intense interest. There was certainly no doubt he took his calling seriously. She shook her head a little, as she replied, "I can only pass on the knowledge passed on to me. I have not encountered one. They are what we call Arvanaith-Scorned. These are the souls who had one foot on the grass before being ripped away, their boot still left in their print. They are denied rest, torn from that which is most precious when it has already filled their lungs."
"It would drive any being mad," said N'laea, shifting her attention back to the clouds, already missing that slightest brightness of light. "It spreads a hate in them to harm all around them as it is the only feeling strong enough to pierce their insanity. They scream of death, a scream that in itself can cause death."
Shifting through those few stories she knew, she continued, a bit more thoughtful, "I do not believe they have a body. We always refer to them as spirits in our stories. We were told they hate being reminded of their undeath and so will kill anything that is living. There are stories of camps wiped out, the grounds forever haunted by a banshee who has claimed that last bit of their old life, but will refuse to let anything settle in that area again except for them."
"Make of those stories what you will. You undoubtedly can see more patterns in them than I with your experience, know what information is useful to you. They haunt our stories around the campfire, but that is all I know unless you want to hear a campfire story directly. Although that is usually best with a campfire."
Necholas closed his eye, his lips moving slightly as he recited her words silently to himself. “Hmm.. This scream? It’s mentioned in the tiny bit I’d heard of them too. Any idea if merely covering your ears is enough to block the sound? Or would you need magical silence? Or even more than that?” He opened his eye and looked at her again. “If just covering your ears is enough, the old wax earplug trick would work. Otherwise, it would take spellcraft to do it.” He reached up to scratch at his cheek just below the eyepatch.
"My guess is you'd need more," said N'laea, plainly, with the slightest shrug. "Our warriors are not dumb. If a banshee survived to live in our tales, then they required more to remove than common sense."
Necholas nodded thoughtfully. “Mm-hmm….” His fingers twitched slightly, as if counting off items in his head. “I’ll have to see if anyone knows of a single use silence charm… Can’t be like the continual light items, don’t want to be permanently silenced… Although I can think of a few people who could use that.”
He chuckled and shook his head as he brought himself back to the present. “Sorry, got carried away there. Where was I… Oh, yes. Why would other elves think of you as savage? You seem perfectly civilized to me, maybe even more so than most.”
“I can guess a bit why your kind might view humans as savage. We live such shorter lives that it must seem like we’re always rushing around, have no patience, and the like. I’d like to think that essentially our lives are the same as yours, just … compressed. We’re born, grow up, have families and loved ones, and eventually pass on. Humans versus orcs or goblins might be seen in a similar light. They don’t live as long as we do, and they’re often thought of as ‘savages,’ but really, might it merely be impatience?”
"Hmm..." The question, oddly enough, took N'laea off-guard. It was a loaded question, although she did not sense it meant to be as such, but it required a more delicate answer than she often would give, and careful consideration to remove her own bias.
"There are a few different types of Elves, as there are many types of humans. What separates us, as it seems for you, is mostly our ideals and culture. Even the Drow, although much of their circumstances are a curse for their traitorous actions. Except for those rumored to be found in the sea, whom I imagine differ greatly, there are, in the common tongue, those who are considered grey elves, high elves, and wood elves."
"I am sure you understand stereotypes. High elves such as Shi'Nynze are the ones most are likely to encounter as they thrive on adventure and are most open to other races. There are the grey elves who value intelligence and purity, but they are not as hard to find as they claim if you know where to look. But my people, wood elves, rarely care to interact with others." N'laea gave him a sideways, slightly knowing glance. "In all the years you may live, more than I expect any would guess, I will likely be the only wood elf you come across."
With her attention back on the horizon, she continued, "To live in the forest, to remain unbothered by the outside world, requires strength and wisdom. With what little I have told you, I am certain you have a better guess how the grey elves of intelligence or the friendly high elves would view our preference for living. We do not want visitors, and we have no problems making that known in any manner necessary to protect our way of life. We prefer campfire stories to reading books, talking to animals over talking to humanoids, sleeping under the stars to sleeping under a roof. We mark our bodies with tattoos, not perfume. We gather from the forests, not from the markets."
"You do not win me over with kind words as you might a high elf, or a rare book as you might a grey elf. You win me over with a show of strength. And while I might allow that strength to be something more than physical, for most of my clan, actions are words, and strength is what matters."
