Act II, Chapter One: Between Stone and Snow

"There is peace in a life on the river, among my people," Petra says wistfully, "but I think I begin to understand, Azote....that everywhere else is a battlefield."

Azote says to Petra with the thought that she was actually there a century ago, "The total slaughter of elven kind at Burning Line by evil Orcs is something that you just can't forget." Even decades later such bothers Azote obviously. Left a bitter taste for Orcs and the Shadow besides the hunting later.

* * * * * * *

AFTER TREK THROUGH SNOW, MISSING SCOUT:

Azote gives her thoughts, "This weather will probably make hunting for scout Kaelith futile. We may as well make camp here and wait a cold day." She sends Tork up to look about scouting for Kaelith.

Azote's green eyes gaze about for the better of a camping spot.

After wolves:

Jasir plainly doesn't have any qualm with slaying the wolves, though he's uncertain whether he would concur with the reasoning. "There's some conjecture on whether these animals are the result of corruption," he points out. "But we can use their meat and perhaps their fur, though I am no furrier."The ceduku he wields would make for a poor skinning implement certainly.

"Tell me what I can do to help and I shall assist, but I agree with Varin. We should depart before we have the opportunity to freeze through."

After the journey:

The Sarcosan glances about, eyes searching for the next most likely spot where one who wished to observe the location without being seen might be hiding. "We must ask ourselves if they were ever here... or if they have a blind somewhere."

FROZEN BARRENS | GIANT'S TEETH, SCOUT'S SECRETS | BLIZZARD
Snow hushes to a murmur beneath the stone fangs, as though the wind itself is holding its breath.
The last gusts rake across the standing stones before dying against a curtain of thorn-roots. From that living veil steps a lone Erunsil; lean, braid frosted white, eyes fixed and still. Without flourishing he lowers his knife hand-first, palm open in cautious greeting. The scout’s cloak blends with the swirling flurries until the wind lulls; then his voice slips free, as cold and precise as the mountain air.

"Tolo i-ainin, meldor." The High Elven syllables hang an instant before he continues in the rumbling cadences of Norther. "Follow. The snow does not argue, it moves in the wind."

With a silent gesture he parts behind the pillar he appeared next to.

Úlfr looks to Azote, then to Petra, then he moves to follow the scout.

With sudden appearance of scout Kaelith. Azote replies back in High Elven, "Kon tia nostal" (The queens blessing) Gazing to the others, "We best follow and exit this weather." She summons Tork back who hasn't flown far back to her safe clutches.

The scout has all Azote's green eyes upon him. She can't help herself as she watches his manner of movement and how he holds himself. As Azote isn't the most trusting sole. She looks for the slightest hint of deception since he is new to her. She feels some unease seeing an elf.

Azote's remembrance of slaughter is painful to hear about, but of course far more painful to bear. Petra touches the elf's arm in sympathy.

Petra's oma told her once that if elves seem moody it is because sometimes for them the distant past is as fresh as the present. The dwarrow does not think this is unique to elves, however.


* * * * *


Petra is so in awe of the Erunsil elven scout that she bows to him. She would return his peaceable 'knife presentation' greeting but she's afraid she'll mess it up somehow and offend him.

Bobbing her head in agreement and thanks for the shelter and help he offers, she trails after the elf with the rest of her friends.

Seelah pulls her cloak tightly with gauntleted hand. Her wooden shield strapped along her back, and Dawn-Ward gripped in her right hand. She lowers her blade, and nods stoically, but honorably, to the Erunsil. Our ebony errelander nods to Azote, and shudders on the cold. Yes, let’s follow, we should take shelter where we can.

Jasir blinks at the materialization of scout only a moment after the Sarcosan hits upon the presence of old tracks. Thankfully the appearance of the Enrunsil elf saves him the need for explaining and he shuffles towards the prospect of shelter.

"A abdollen el síla erin lû oment le,"Jasir pauses for a moment to reply, along with a somewhat apologetic placement of his hand over his heart. It's a somewhat dry attempt at humor, a play on a courtly greeting combined with an apology for being late.

He doesn't linger, though. Nor seem to be on guard against the elf given the Snow Elves' propensity and hatred of the Shadow, and vice versa.

FROZEN BARRENS | GIANT'S TEETH, SCOUT'S SECRETS | BLIZZARD
Jagged pillars loom, overseeing breath sheltered in a howling void.
Kaelith leads the troop away from the Teeth and in a few moments the frigid travelers find themselves at well-hidden wolves' den. The narrow earthen crawl slopes down five paces and opens into a low, oval chamber, the abandoned lair of a dire wolf. Frost still rims scattered bones, yet the bite of the gale stops short at the entrance. At the chamber’s heart, a fist-sized hearthstone glows dull amber, its warmth spilling across packed soil and rough walls until breath no longer steams. Here the cold hazard of the march relents; no sleet finds purchase, and the air carries a faint, resin-sweet scent.

Inside, Kaelith dips his head toward Azote, voice lowered to the cadence of High Elven, "Elen sila na Aradil, ken-quessir."

A rare half-smile ghosts his features. He turns the same mute respect upon Jasir, eyes narrowing in good-natured appraisal before another quiet phrase parts his lips, "Lle quena sai quorin, edan. im uuma auta adatt quena i’lambe."

Space is tight: backs brush ceiling roots, and gear must be stacked in tidy rows, yet everyone fits with room enough to sit or crouch about the hearth-stone’s glow. Outside, the snow redoubles, the den’s hide flap snapping like a muted drum; within, only the pop of cooling stone answers.

Kaelith settles on one knee beside the hearth-stone, cloak pooling in the dust, "You made it. I was not sure you would." He draws a slow breath and continues in Norther, "First, understand this: our path leads to the Dolmen of New-Dawn, not the Dolmen of Stars." He lets the words settle like falling snow before adding, "Now, ask your questions."

Jasir offers a helpless shrug of his shoulders and switches seamlessly into Norther, "It is increasingly difficult to find chance to practice the tongue of the Eldar, but it stems not from lack of desire," he says before glancing over at the others and giving a quick translation of what has been said so far. The warmth of the cave seems to quicken the Sarcosan's wits and he moves to remove his headwrap while dropping his pack.

"I can translate should there be a need-..." he adds while moving to retrieve his oilskin wrapped lorebook. "-and shall take notation."

Varin stumbles straight toward the hearth, his joints stiff and gait uneven from the cold. Without a word, he drops to the floor beside the fire, sitting far too close to the flames. He rips off his damp gloves and boots, holding his raw, reddened hands out toward the heat.

"Give us a chance to break the ice in our bones," he mutters through chattering teeth, "and wake up our frostbitten brains."

He leans forward, letting the heat wash over him as he rotates his hands and feet, thawing each frozen extremity one by one. Steam rises from his damp clothes, and despite the risk of burns, he doesn’t budge—just closes his eyes and breathes deeply, soaking in every bit of warmth like a dying man.

Kaelith’s gaze flicks to Jasir’s lorebook, "Write what you will, scholar." A terse nod follows. "Lasta quetien."

Noticing Varin crouched too near the glow, he murmurs, "Careful, a hearthstone sears as quickly as it warms." A waterskin slides across the packed soil. "Drink, then shift back. Unless you prefer burns to frostbite."

Settling beside the amber stone, he addresses the room, "I shall continue to wait."

Azote says to Kaelith in High Elven, "We all share Erenlander for a common language, if you can."

In High Elven, "The warmth of this shelter is of great wealth. We have wolf meat with us to share." and repeats it in Erenlander.

Kaelith inclines his head, replying in the lilting cadence of High Elven, "Norther naa ar’tiera amin; Erenlander naa lambe-mongril ar amin rangwa ten’na."

His gaze flicks to the wolf carcasses, "Your meat is welcome. The stone will cook it. I can prepare it if you wish."

In High Elven, "We are of many lands. The need to communicate exceeds wants. " As she of course must agree although for the last many decades she hasn't spoken High Elven besides today. She doesn't mention that she has no idea of Northern Language and is only guessing that is it.

"It would be a treat to us to savor your skills with the wolf meat." as Azote hopes that he has spices as she rather not have goodberry. Real meat sounds so good. She seldom receives such. And if he prepares it in a more traditional way then it has been many decades since she has had it that way as she hasn't been in Elven lands for decades.

Kaelith produces a small knife and goes to work, slicing a hind-quarter from the carcass with precise, silent strokes. A small horn of grey salt appears from his pouch; he rubs the crystals into the meat, then drives two iron skewers into the packed soil so the wolf-flesh can slow-roast beside the amber glow of the hearth-stone. Throughout, his eyes flick between blade and company.

"Erenlander naa lambe-mongril; ni quena ten’na úvë, ar esta úvë úvë." He salts another strip, sets it to warm, and adds without looking up.

"Besides, Norther carries meaning well; I can see in your faces that you follow. I need no other tongue." He says flatly.

Between sentences he turns the skewers, testing the surface with a gloved thumb. Rich aroma begins to fill the den.

After thanking Kaelith for the cooking, Petra ventures a question in Norther.

"What is the Dolmen of New Dawn? And what dangers and assistance if any should we expect to find there?"

Kaelith turns a wolf-haunch, fat hissing against the hearth-stone, then answers Petra in curt Norther, "The Dolmen of New-Dawn is an old Elthedar dawn-ring: obsidian stones, three pillars that ‘sing’ when the moon stands right." A fleck of salt taps the glowing meat as he speaks, "Few know it exists. Expect no allies, only silence and whatever the pillars wake."

He threads another strip on a skewer before adding, voice low, "If I knew the dangers, I would walk there alone. I do not, which is why I asked for swords and spells."

With that he tests the sear, rips a bite-sized corner free, and hands the first cooked piece to Varin without looking up, eyes still on the remaining meat.