Act II, Chapter Two: Memories of Dawn

Azote nods, "Yes. It is time to move on." and still has Tork about the air watching for trouble.

Úlfr keeps singing his part.

Seelah lowers Dawnward, and then just as quickly, raises her blade again, vertically in front of her. Maintaining keen perception with the covenant blade’s authority.

I am ready, replies our ebony erelander. Let’s move.

Jasir sags slightly as whatever power he's drawn on fades. He allows himself to double over and catch his breath, but it doesn't take long before he straightens up and returns his cedeku to its sheathe. "It will take me but a moment to discern the spellform. I would see if our efforts bore fruit."

A quick couple gestures and arcane words and his eyes light up with a blue glow that fades away after a moment. He turns his perception over the cairns, his hand raised to direct his sense of arcane energies.

Petra sags in relief as no more Fell stir following Aryth's final defiant burst of its innate power, when the roots can no longer endure.

"I agree we should move on quickly, but first, is anyone injured who would allow me to clean their wound to stop festering or disease, or better yet let me heal it? How about you, Varin?"

She's eyeing the elfling who seemed to absorb the worst blow among them, although she can't be sure about that in the frenzy of battle.


Her eyes slide to the Fell and she murmurs,

"Also, once you are done gathering what may be useful..."--she hesitates to say looting and won't even mention that it feels wrong to take from the honored dead, since she understands perfectly well that these are far more desperate times than before...when these warriors could be given the luxury of being buried with defensive arms and supplies.



"It seems only right to send these corpses back into the embrace of Aryth. With a touch of my hand to each we will re-bury them and perhaps keep them at rest."



* * * * * A little time passes * * * * *


All 'gathering' of useful supplies being done with, the dwarrow touches each of the Fell and wills Aryth to reclaim them, murmuring in the primal Dwarven.

"I’ll be fine—nothing I can’t walk off," Varin mutters, brushing off the concern with a grunt. He crouches beside one of the fallen Fell, rough hands patting down its body for anything useful—coin, weapon, scrap, whatever might serve. His eyes linger on its twisted form before he glances back at the others.

"Do we need to take the heads… just to be sure?"

Úlfr still chanting. "May we finish this song to bring sound to the stones?"

Petra shakes off dizziness and nods in reply to Varin. Her most courteous course would probably be to stop offering him healing from now on, and instead wait for him to ask for it if he's not out cold.


So much power channeled so quickly...but she's not too exhausted to keep going. And wouldn't it be useful to test her limits? This is how she can be a warrior like the others, in spirit if not in body.


"We had better start the chant over...when you're all ready?"


The dwarrow makes sure Jasir and Ulfr and anyone else who wants to join in is ready, then performs the chant.

Dornish:

"Varth rúnar, vaknið nú; 
Blóð ok bein hvíla í frost.
Forfeðr vaktar, haldið vörð; 
Lýsið leið til dögun kross."

Jasir doesn't seem overly concerned by prospect of the Fell re-rising. "Even amongst those shackled to undeath there are few examples that can rise again after their destruction a second time," he states with some degree of certainty. "But there's always exceptions," he allows a moment later after the group makes whatever post-battle acquisitions can be made.

The Sarcosan is ready when the group settles and ready to join in the ritual and speak his part.

FROZEN BARRENS | MARCH OF SNOW & ECHOES | PALE AFTERNOON
The old words are heavier when spoken twice, but the cairns still remember them.
The field of shattered bones lies quiet beneath the falling snow. Where once the vines clutched and tore, only black ash drifts now, slowly swallowed by the pale drifts.

It is Petra who begins again. Her voice is soft at first, carrying no more weight than a hearth-rhyme, but each syllable steadies as she draws breath. The chant threads out between the stones, weaving old Dornish cadences with Aryth’s undercurrent, as though summoning a memory deeper than frost.

One by one, the others join. Seelah’s alto strikes firm and clear, a soldier’s oath in song. Ulfr’s voice rumbles low, steady as stone. Jasir intones the words with careful precision, ink-stained hands clasped as if scribing in air. Even Varin hums along, breath syncing with the rhythm.

At the fore, Kaelith does not join, his weariness lies too near the surface, but he does not protest. Silent, he watches the snow collect on the cairns’ crowns, eyes narrowed against memories he refuses to voice.

This time, the chant carries. A subtle warmth answers from within the stone piles: not fire, not light, but something older, a lessening of the cold, as if grief itself exhales. For a heartbeat, the cairns stand untainted: no bruised glyphs, no Shadow’s smear, only solemn watchstones of the fallen.

The echo fades, but peace lingers like an aftertaste in the heart.

Though he never spoke a word, Kaelith feels the answering hush all the same. The weight that pressed so heavily on the cairns lifts, if only by a fraction, and the air tastes less of ash. He lets out a breath he had not realized he held, shoulders easing as no stir of bone or frost-bound sinew follows the chant.

For a heartbeat, the Erunsil scout allows himself the smallest flicker of relief, that the stones have stilled, that the dead remain dead. Then his expression hardens again, eyes scanning the ridge’s pale crowns.

"The path lies open. We must move, before it closes behind us."

He gestures northward, steps already crunching over fresh snow, urging the company onward with quiet insistence. The cairns fade behind, half-buried once more in snowfall and silence.

Ùlfr picks up a good head sized throwing stone and follows the guide.

As before wounded Tork continues to scan ahead for encounters. Azote is a bit more relieved that what was summoned wasn't nearly overcoming as might have been feared. She never wanted this encounter but is glad it is over with and agrees with Kaelith about moving on which was her thoughts a well. She fears we now have left a marker showing our progress so moving on soon as possible would be best. She hopes it takes a while for it to be discovered.

She has put away her bow and such to free her hands so she can stay warmer. Cold is still here. She asks Kaelith in Erenlander so others can understand the question as High Elven wouldn't allow that, "How much further before we find the next point of shelter?"

The dwarrow breathes deeply the peaceful atmosphere after the cairns are restored as much as they can manage. One small wrong set a bit more right, warriors buried again as was their due.


She acknowledges Jasir's comment about the Fell being unlikely to rise again, burial or not, with a soft murmur of "What is right is not always necessary...and these days, what is necessary often feels wrong. A sign of the times."


Afterward, a touch woozy and with stomach grumbling, Petra concentrates on putting one foot in front of the other as they move onto their next rest--or next obstacle.

Seelah lowers Dawnward, and then just as quickly, raises her blade again, vertically in front of her. Maintaining keen perception with the covenant blade’s authority.

I am ready, replies our ebony erelander. Let’s move.

FROZEN BARRENS | MARCH OF SNOW & ECHOES | SNOWY NIGHT

The cairns fade behind; ahead waits the dolmen where dawn is not forgotten.
With no further stirrings from the ridge, Kaelith sets the column back into motion. The snow falls in a constant, light sift, dusting cloaks and hoods until every step shakes free a soft cloud. The air is cold, but the gale has not returned, and the silence that follows the chant is of a gentler sort, like a field at rest rather than a tomb.

The party moves steadily, the path sloping downward before climbing again toward the broken line of hills where the Dolmen of New-Dawn waits. From time to time Kaelith halts at a rise, etching quick signs into the drift, assurances of safe footing for those who follow, should anyone ever dare.

Hours pass without incident. No spoor of Shadow’s hunters mars the snow, no distant horns echo across the stone. Only the crunch of boots, the whisper of falling flakes, and the measured breath of companions mark the way.

By nightfall the land levels into a shallow vale rimmed with frost-heavy pines. The Dolmen’s silhouette looms in the distance, a dark crown against the paling sky, but the hour grows late, and Kaelith signals a halt beneath the trees.

A small fire takes hold quickly, its smoke lost in the constant drift. The night remains still, the snow no more than a lazy veil, and nothing disturbs the camp as warmth spreads through cold-stiff fingers. In the light of the fire, the party makes ready for the night.

Varin stays to the back of the group as walk through the Cairns. He has slowed a little in the back. Wincing in pain from miss steps he doesn't complain or groan just takes it sliently with gritted teeth.

As the fire settles into steady embers, Kaelith stands at the edge of camp, cloak drawn close, eyes fixed north where the Dolmen’s shadow crowns the ridge. After a silence long enough for the snow to gather on his braid, he speaks, low, even, but carrying to each ear.

"Today was a test. Whether we passed or failed, open for debate. The cairns are quiet, but the dead are never truly at rest. Still… credit where due: you managed to stir life into stones I’ve never seen move before."

With that, he turns back toward the fire, lowering himself to a crouch with the same economy he gives to all things, and says no more.

Petra doesn't know what to make of the elf's cryptic assessment and she's certainly not up for any debate.

Her stomach's growl has become too much and so she buries a stone after murmuring a plea to Aryth over it.

One hour later the stone rises, having acquired a potato-like appearance. She uses her cook's kit to make from that blessed stone a hearty and spicy soup, which she offers to share.


The dwarrow also offers to take a two-hour watch shift.

Azote has quietly march along till we finally make camp. Every so often Tork comes back to her before leaving off again to scan ahead. Azote seems preoccupied as we traverse the distance and constantly watching our back side.

With camp she again sets up her comfy tent up. She doesn't cast goodberry and instead eats some soup. She does take time to nurse her wounds and Tork's but both are minor and will be healed easily by morning. "Your soup is a change of pace."

Azote has avoided casting any spells that could be detected. She hasn't casted anything detectable since the elemental fight. She doesn't even use her channeler magic to heal herself & Tork.

"It is good we have almost crossed this cold waste land." She yearns for a warm place to rest at.

"It will be wise to set watches. I with Tork will take the first."