Return of the Prince
January 2007

Winter was a time of semi-permanence for the Taure Herurim, known more commonly as sylvan or wood elves. Nomadic as this particular brand of elven subculture was, canvas tents were replaced by wood lodges for the season. The sylvan were adept at camouflaging their encampments. Even with a central campfire and gently billowing smoke rising into the trees surrounding the clearing they called home currently, no non-elven eye passing within a hundred yards would have noticed it. One elf noticed it, from two hundred yards away. An elf who had not returned to his people in a lifetime.

He crouched high in the boughs of an oak and watched the subdued activity of his people with forlorn green eyes. How many years had passed? To an elf, time is of little importance. Years crawl at a snail's pace, and yet. This one ranger with copper red hair felt the weight of decades come crashing down around him in an instant. It broke his heart to see the camp, to see the branch stepping sentries that patrolled around it.

He became one with the tree he was perched in. Let his cloak blend him into the bark and branches and clinging snowfall. He waited hours and hours, until day became night and only the dim glow of a warm red fire illuminated the central point of the camp. A glow that could only be seen from above. With the thick underbrush and foliage surrounding the long houses, no untrained eye would have noticed it from any distance on the ground. Sentries changed shifts in silence, and only then did he make his move.

The ranger climbed down from his high perch without making a single sound. He was at one with the forest. He moved with the gentle sway of the breeze and left no tracks behind to be discovered later. He felt like a thief sneaking into a well-guarded fortress, aimed to steal away the crown jewels. He did intend on stealing something, but nothing that amounted to monetary value.

As a ghost of the woods, he slipped easily under the noses of high placed sentries. There was one long house in particular that was his destination. He knew it immediately, as if he had stepped inside only yesterday. A white fur pelt of a wolf hung over the door. This one cabin was smaller than the rest. Reserved to dwell only one elf, an old elf, an elder of his clan. He swept aside the pelt and ducked inside before anyone else should notice his shadow.

The woman sitting on bear skin was old and wrinkled, which was unbecoming of any elf. Her hair was long and white, braided thrice and looped through with leather, a tribal tradition as much as the red and blue tattoos that were etched in swirling patterns across the entirety of her flesh. Her eyes were still as bright and blue as they had been in her youth. When she looked up from stirring her pot of boiling herbs and spotted him, he knew at once that she was surprised. "Rusedhel," she said in a panicked whisper. She rose quickly from her seat and crossed to the flap to peer quickly outside. He stepped out of her way and to the side. When she looked back at him and pulled the flap closed completely, she frowned. "You should not be here."

"Siliviel," he said, bowing his head respectfully. "Forgive me. I needed to see you." He swept the hood off of his head with both hands, but kept his copper-crown bowed low to her still. It was only right. It was respect to an elder, and apology for trespassing into her home uninvited.

She clucked her tongue against the roof of her mouth, chiding him in her old way, and waved a hand to invite him in completely. "If you are discovered, you will be killed." But it seemed she had no intention of turning him in. He was grateful for that. His smile was lost to her back when she turned it to him. The elder woman settled down on her bear pelt again and resumed stirring her pot of boiling herbs. A druid she had been. The woman who had taught him all he knew of herbal remedies and more.

Amongst his people, he was known as Rusedhel. Or he had been. Now, if they remembered him at all, they called him Alquwynis. A name that was both an insult and a compliment to those who knew the meaning and purpose of the name being given. It was a name that, when shared with humans, had been pronounced differently. A name that had become Alquinius. He was quite possibly the only elf with so many names to offer anyone asking.

He stepped away from the door and settled on a wolf pelt across from her, on his shins with his gloved hands resting on his knees, posture rigid and uncertain. He had to be cautious. There was always the possibility that any other member of the tribe would enter her tent at any given moment to speak with her. Siliviel was an elder, one who had far outlived her time and refused to cross to Arvanaith just yet. She insisted her work in this life was not yet finished, and so she grew old and wrinkled as time wore on. She was the only elf in the entire encampment respected more than the chief, or queen, herself.

"Speak, Rusedhel," she said. A stern note was in her voice. She was not precisely pleased to have him here in her dwelling. "Tell me why it is I do not call the sentries and have you put to death."

Alquin, as his name had been shortened to amongst humankind, sighed into his apology, his head bowed with his shame. "Forgive me, Siliviel, for putting this burden on you. I did not know who else to turn to. No one else I know has the knowledge I seek."

"So it is a lesson you search for. One I have not already taught you?" She scowled into her pot. Fragrant scents like rosemary and cinnamon circled up into the slithering tendrils of smoke that rose from the fire.

"No, my teacher. One I have forgotten."

She looked up and across her fire at him directly. Through his lashes he could see the scowl on her wrinkled face. It shamed him to admit this failure to her. "The story is etched into your skin as mine, Rusedhel. How could you forget anything I have taught you?" Her voice was stern and filled with disappointment.

The ranger sighed, his shoulders sagged dejectedly and his head hung low. "The story is broken," he said, quietly. "Broken by blades and by fire. Broken by time and how it changes the world."

Siliviel lifted her chin high with disdain. "The story does not change, Alquwynis." These words may seem to be riddles to others, but it was how the Taure Herurim spoke. "You chose your path, and in so choosing took the story with you into exile

"Forgive me, my teacher. I could not take your mantle and wear it as you wanted."

"No. Nor could you choose the mantle your father wanted for you as Forest King. Now there is a queen, and she is not of your line. She does not even bear the story on her skin. Our people and our ways die with me."

"This is why I chose exile, Siliviel." He lifted his head then to look at her and reveal the anger swelling in his eyes. "Father forbade me from wearing your mantle. The story does not die with you. It dies with me."

She clanged her spoon against the insides of the pot, an emphasis of her own anger. "You took our ways with you, Rusedhel!" Her ire rose with her voice and he shrank away from her, feeling again as a small boy who had broken one of her jars. He sent a nervous glance aside to the wolf pelt door flap. What if the sentries, what if anyone, heard her shouting? Seeing his fright pushed a calming sigh out of her. "I am too old. None are as you, young prince. None have the skill for our ways."

The ranger shuffled forward again and reached out to catch her hand in his. He should have been a druid as her. Instead he had become a warrior of the woods, far more skilled than the simple sentries that patrolled the encampment day and night. "Siliviel," he said softly, apologetically.

"Arvanaith sings for me, Rusedhel. I have lingered too long, but I must wait. I must fine one who can wear the story and continue our ways before I go." Her wrinkled hand shook in his two. She was so fragile, so old.

He wept silently for her. Tears leaked out of his eyes slowly. "Forgive me, dear teacher. Please forgive me. It was all I could do."

"Stop," she said, pulling her hand out of his grasp. "I forgave you long ago, prince. I am perhaps the only one who has. It is forbidden even to remember you now. But you did not come to hear what has happened to your people. What lesson have you forgotten now?" She went back to stirring her boiling pot.

"I came to ask you of the Dark Elves." He winced prematurely, but it was just. Her spoon clattered again, this time more loudly, and when she looked up her eyes were wide with the shock of such a subject.

"What of them?" Siliviel's hand shook more violently. One did not speak of the drow so openly. That was perhaps as forbidden as choosing against the will of the Taure Haran, or any other member of the nobility. It was her turn to send a nervous glance to the door of her dwelling, but soon enough her attention was rapt.

Alquin bowed his head again, a swell of regret and uncertainty catching hold of his determination and squeezing it tight. He released his tension as a heavy sigh. It was best to tread lightly with this subject. "I wish to know ... if it is possible to trust them. At all." Cautiously, he lifted his eyes to look at her. He expected a disfavorable answer.

From anyone other than Siliviel, he would have received a disfavorable answer. The elder sat with her fingers touched against her mouth, stunned to silence for some time, but then she too sighed long in an attempt to relieve her tension. "What is said of them is true, Rusedhel. The foes were banished from the light and love of our world long ago. They took with them darkness and fled into the deepest depths. They took with them a hatred for all those who walk in the light and vowed never to rest until all were slain. But..."

But? He leaned forward and strained to listen, certain that she would whisper. They locked eyes for a moment and he saw there a hope he had been searching for. She continued. "Time does change things. Most of the dark ones worship the dark goddess, but there are others."

"Elistraee," he said. Alquin knew the name of the dark maiden, as well as he knew the names of various other deities.

Siliviel nodded her approval to a lesson remembered, and faintly she smiled. "Elistraee promises a return to the light for the dark ones. Those who follow her can well be trusted. In secret they work to undo the centuries of hatred and desired revenge taught by..." It was not a name she dared to speak. A name that not many elves dared to speak.

Alquin nodded his understanding. She didn't need to speak the name. He knew precisely who she meant to speak of. "What of those who do not follow Elistraee?"

The elder considered this, and after a moment only shook her head. "Not all must follow a god or goddess. I have lived long, Rusedhel. Long enough to know that even a Forest Lord can have an impure heart." To this, she smirked.

With a snort, the ranger leaned back and crossed his arms defiantly. "You do not mean me."

"Of course not, prince. Your heart was always pure. Always have you followed it and set yourself upon the path that was true for you."

"Then you speak of my father."

Siliviel frowned in a forlorn sort of way. She gave no verbal response, but she did nod very faintly. Her eyes turned back down to look upon her boiling pot when she did so. The mixture was in need of stirring, and so she set herself to that task.

They sat together in silence for a time. Alquin could think of no further questions to ask her after the eternal wisdom she just shared. Follow your heart, she had said, in not so many words. In the past, she had always left him to learn his lessons in harsh ways. Never provided easy answers. This was a quandry he had to figure out on his own. So eventually he nodded and rose to his feet. "Thank you, Siliviel. I am glad to have had this time with you." He bowed his head respectfully, and she bowed hers in turn.

"Walk as the wolf, Rusedhel. Fly as the eagle."

"And hunt as the tiger," he finished with a smirk. They shared one last moment of smiling communal silence, and then he pulled his hood up over his head. It was time to leave. Before anyone found him here. Therefore he took his leave and ducked out of her dwelling into the warm glow of the central campfire.

The elder's parting words had been sound advice. He stepped out as he had entered, on silent steps that left no tracks. He meant to flee from the encampment swiftly and turn his back on this life forever, again. The only problem with that plan was the fact that someone had indeed heard Siliviel's earlier shout. No sooner had the white wolf pelt settled against the frame of the lodge behind him did an arrow whistle past his ear and plant itself into wood. Alquin hissed an expletive. Oh yes. Elves have expletives.

"I told you," he heard one male voice say from the treetops to his left.

"Really, Tathar. You expected me to believe you? So often you imagine hearing things." That voice came from the treetops to his right. Alquin reached for the hilts of his swords.

"Tut, tut, tut," said a female voice. She slid out of the shadows directly ahead of him and strolled around the fire. "You are surrounded. I do not recommend drawing steel with so many arrows pointed at your head."

He strained his hearing, and true enough could hear the taught pull of a dozen bow strings. Alquin grit his teeth and hissed another unpleasant word or two. The female continued to walk toward him. Her hair was long and golden, as was more common for sylvan kind, and she wore it unbound. A crown sat atop her head, twisted and molded to appear as bronzed ivy leaves. Petrified for eternity. He knew that crown, if not directly the woman. That crown should have been his crown.

Her smile was sweet and lethal all at once. When she was near enough to touch him, she did. She lifted both hands to push back his hood. "Well, well, well. It is true then," she said when his copper red hair was revealed to the fire light. The woman then turned to address those unseen surrounding them. "Alquwynis Rholaes'Arn has returned to the Forest Lords." Her announcement was met with hushed murmurs that he could only hear. Shock and astonishment, uncertainty and hatred. "Has the exiled prince come to reclaim his crown?"

"No. I have not come to reclaim my crown," he growled at her back. His hands ached to take up his swords. If he had to fight his way free of this place, he would.

A rustle of fur stirred behind him, and he knew that Siliviel had emerged from her dwelling. The golden haired woman wearing the royal crown turned to look at her, over Alquin's shoulder. She raised her chin high with disdain and scowled her disfavor. "Siliviel, I am disappointed in you. Harboring an exile? Truly you grow too old for your mantle."

"Lothrín," said the elder, calm as the summer sun. It was then that the ranger knew the woman. He had known her, long ago. Then she was a young girl. Had so much time passed? Had he grown so old?

"Deden?" That was the name he had known her by. He was surprised to see her. More surprised to see her wearing the crown!

The queen scowled at him, and then promptly slapped him hard across the cheek. "You will address me as Lady Lothrín, exile." She hissed the word with the utmost disdain. He barely flinched from the offense of being struck. What did he expect? He was an exile, by his own choosing. Why was he not dead already?

"Forgive me, Lady Lothrín," he said, with perhaps a bit of sarcasm in his tone. This new queen did not deserve the respect she demanded, in his opinion. Deden had been an impulsive and tempetuous girl as he remembered her. Spoiled to the core. How did she become queen? It didn't matter. He lifted his head in a display of his pride. She could not break him. "Here you have me, Forest Queen. You know the law as well as I do. I await the strike of your blade."

Siliviel stepped forward and put herself between them. "My queen, I ask you please. Take a moment to consider. Alquwynis is the last of our lore. He carries the story on his skin as I do. If you kill him, all will be lost."

The queen was unconvinced. She lifted her chin all that much higher and scoffed. "Siliviel, you are old. Any of our tribe could wear the story as he does." She swept out an arm sharply to gesture to the flickering shadows of the surrounding and whispering crowd. "Yet you refuse to take any of them under your wing. Brégnír is skilled with the wood. He could be the next in your place."

"Brégnír is impetous and crude with his workings. He does not have the fortitude to carry the story." Alquin fought to restrain a snicker when hearing the elder say that. He knew Brégnír. He remembered him from long ago. Siliviel was right. He was hasty and only ever finished half the tasks set before him. Not to mention he always complained about the slightest scratch. He could imagine no end of whining and whimpering would come from being marked with the story of the wood.

There were even a few chuckles from the shadowy crowd. Lothrín looked around and scowled menace at the lot of them. The fire in her blue eyes was plenty to create silence. She turned sharply to aim that displeasure at the ranger and the elder who stood in front of him. "You may be old, Siliviel, and you may be the last of our lore, but the law is the law." She snapped her fingers. Nearby branches rustled as sentries climbed down from their perches and hurried into the light to surround them more fully. "Take them to separate lodgings," said the queen. "Guard them well. I will deal with them in the morning."

It was not one of the sentries who seized his weapons, but Lothrín herself. The queen pushed the elder out of her way, stepped forward with a deadly sweet smile, and unbuckled the ranger's belt. He protested with a growl and bared teeth, but was incapable to fight her with a sentry grabbing an arm on either side of him. When she unclasped his quiver, and leaned in to slide the bow up over his head, she whispered in his ear. "A shame we had to meet under such circumstances, Rusedhel. I had always liked you, but then ... you wrote your own law as it stands now." Cunning and cruel, as even elven women can be, she pressed a kiss to his earlobe and then stepped back.

Alquin pulled on one arm, and then the other with a strained growl. That kiss had stunned him for the second in time the queen had needed to turn her back and carry his weapons away. Two more sentries came to join the first two, and four escorted him bodily away from Siliviel's dwelling. It took only one to lead the elder herself in the other direction. She put up no struggle at all.

Tracking What Leaves No Trace
(Continuation of "Return of the Prince" adapted from live play to story form.)

Day turned to night turned to day turned to night again. For a week straight, the ranger had avoided the trickster. Done some hunting and thinking and tracking and his usual forest warden duties of keeping certain evil drow from trespassing in his forest. You know the drill. But one day turned into one night in which the forest itself was eerily silent. It seemed to carry with it a certain lack of presence that was almost always there. The sense people get of being watched: gone. There was, however, one cougar pacing discontentedly back and forth and back and forth and back and forth along a riverbank. Her tail was lashing at the air with every turn.

Not seeing the ranger for so long, was working on his nerves. He really had upset him this time, hadn't he? He hadn't even seriously kissed the guy! He, much like the cougar, was pacing. Only in a much, much wider path. Along ones Alquin often treaded, actually, one way, then back. He'd done that for some time before coming upon the riverbank. Silver staff in hand, he leaned on it, and let cobalts rove up the waters edge...when he spotted the cat.

At first he almost dismissed that as typical...until he realized that in that water was no ranger. Silverwhite brows knit over eyes, and he moved. He was garbed in a widesleeved tunic and trousers, armed as he usually was save for the addition of a single bladed sword on his side. It seemed almost like a shamshir, actually. What other kind of blade would be peddled in a desert city? Walk was slow, as he was scanning the area very carefully with more than eyes. No ranger. Fingers sifted along the fur on her back as he came up. "Where is he, Tinechor?" Soft.

The cougar stopped her pacing immediately. Actually, before the trickster even spoke her name. Cougars have decent enough hearing, as all wild animals do, to never be caught off guard. With one final lash of her tail and a rumble that could very well be a nervous purr, she turned out of her pacing and wound around the drow's legs instead.

Good, good. Very good. Ssz'tyr would know what to do. Mommy wildcat is very distraught you see. She even spoke, in a feline way. "Mrrooow?" Believe it or not, cougars can meow. Only, with their size, it sounds much deeper and rumbly than the average housecat. Technically, they are the largest small cat there is. Her coarse gold fur was all bristled up along her spine. Not a happy kitty. Thumping her tail hard against Ssz'tyr's leg, she then slinked away from him and hopped up a path of rocks. Follow me. Climb, climb. Gotta hurry.

Frown deepened with the sounds she made. Tch. Shameful. He shouldn't be mindful of this sort of thing should he? What the hell kind of drow was he? Either way, he was hurrying to follow, yes. Climbing he could do. He used the staff as an aid in this. "Hn. I really...must..." Grunt as he hefted his own weight up. "Get him to teach me to track in these environments." Because he just wasn't adept at it at all. Talking to himself to try and dispel his own worry. Whistling in the dark, so to speak.

Not that Tinechor could really understand him completely, but the cougar did snort at a patch of snow when leaping up onto a higher ledge. Nimble feline grace. That one's a tough one, almost as tall as Ssz'tyr himself! She turned to peer down at him, as if questioning whether or not he'd be able to make such a climb. Careful of the ice. Slippery handholds and all that.

He cheated. That climbing was done effortlessly. With a pinprick of red in cobalt blue. Toss of the staff up on the lip, and he was hauling himself up and over, to peer at the way ahead. "He couldn't have taken the easy path eh?" Staff was recollected, and he was brushing himself over to get snow off as he set to sort of jogging, fully expecting the cat to lead the way.

The cougar's ears toggled, and she rumbled a low sound that was one part growl and one part nervous purr. Turning again to lead the way, her tail lashed the air impatiently. Hurry, hurry. Dawn was creeping in and they had a long way to travel before it was too late. She had lead the drow up this way because it was the easiest place to cross the river. Above where the falls hit the ledge and tumbled down, there was a path of raised stones that the current flooded rapids around. Tinechor bounced from one to the other with ease and waited for him on the other side. Again pausing to look back, make sure he could make it.

Drow were naturally nimble creatures and he was no exception. Though the threat of dawn had his own pace somewhat hurried. Day was never a good thing for him, and the last potion he had in his pouch would only counterbalance the nasty effects the sun had on him for so long. And to think he'd squandered one of them on a walk so long ago? Tch. He was regretting that now.

Hop, hop. Pause. Just to reaffirm his balance for the final jump. That near sprinted pace continued. He trusted the cat enough to trust that if she was hurrying him along that way there was a reason, and it was weighing even more heavily on his head.

Tinechor chirped a sound that could have been approval. Well done, Ssz'tyr. You didn't slip and fall and drown. She would've hated to have to go swimming. She's not a tiger you know. The moment he landed on the opposite shore and she made that sound, she then suddenly turned and took off full-tilt into a bounding run. Sprint isn't going to cut it, trickster. From here the path was a straight shot, and the cougar was wasting no time to worry about stealth. Her wide paws kicked up gusts of snow spray in her wake, but she certainly left a nice trail for him to follow.

In that case, he sped to at least keep in sight of the cat. Tucking that staff up and under his arm so that it didn't overbalance him in his little forward lean, and so that he could keep it from knocking or catching anything to impede him. He did have to take care not to slip and fall, though, he was pleased that the way was uncomplicated from here. He was, perhaps, just as impatient as the cat was to to get wherever Alquin was.

This headlong race went on for quite some time. The forest was large, after all. So long as they kept this pace, however, they would reach the edge in no time. And it was the edge of the forest Tinechor lead the trickster to. Where here trees abruptly ended and a stone wall leapt out of the ground in their place. Here there be mountains.

And here the path got difficult again. Cougars were not also known as mountain lions for nothing. Springing from the ground, Tinechor leapt high onto a ledge, then bounced immediately to another, then another, until she was a dozen or so feet off the ground and looking down from a natural path cut into the stone face above. Ssz'tyr might very well have to cheat again, but she'll wait long enough for him to catch up.

He skidded to a stop when said ... mountains ... were in the way, and he drew in a breath. Cheat, yes. He lifted his body with something more powerful than his arms and legs. He moved up the rock face with more swiftness than any person should, really. He didn't even bother being careful. There was one single moment where he looked in danger of falling. A slick of ice was covering a handhold, and ... well. He slipped. When he did it became clear
he was pseudo levitating his way up. Still, he scrabbled to get his hold again with a breath of relief before he was safely up on Tinechor's level. "That... Never happened." With a sheepish smile.

Tinechor huffed out a sound that sounded very much like a harumph, and her tail slashed through the air. Don't worry. She's worried too. From here, though, the path was more treacherous. She continued along the ledge with her head hung low, belly low, slinking carefully up and up and up. This was not a place to resume sprinting, but she still moved swiftly.

The trail wound 'round and 'round and up and up for what seemed like an eternity. The ledge slimmed in some places, widened in others, and if Ssz'tyr was not very careful there was a high risk of slipping and falling. Without trees to protect against the season's elements, patches of ice existed here in abundance. But this was a shortcut that cut between forests. Up and up, around and around, then down and down she lead him.

Until, at last, she stopped and crept out onto the very edge of a large slab of rock that overlooked more and more trees. She sat and stared across the forest where not far beyond, perhaps half a mile, one could see wisps of smoke rising into the still night sky. Dawn was close, though. Very close.

He moved as well, with more haste than he should have, and indeed. He was lucky to not slip and just end up splattered on the rocks below. He'd thank whatever deity he'd pleased to not have that happen later. In any case, once they'd stopped he used the opportunity to catch his breath, and followed the cat's gaze. Eyes were still useful with the light as it was,
but that wouldn't take long to change. "We really must hurry, Tinechor." Urged. He got the point. Head for the smoke. That was easy enough. He set to moving, again in that run.

Easier here than in other places. Tinechor turned away from the ledge and slinked down a steeper sloping path that lead to the forest floor below. Not quite as icy, but halfway down they were hailed by the sound of nearby wolf song. Arooooooo! First one, then another joining in chorus. Two to be precise.

Hopping down from rock to turf, the cougar began her own sprint. Drow and cougar gained an entourage along the way. Ssz'tyr would be able to hear them panting and loping through the underbrush on either side as they raced. Half a mile indeed, but a couple hundred yards short of their destination, Tinechor stopped again, turning the side of her body to block the trickster's legs should he not stop himself.

He was tensing as they ran, trying to prepare himself for whatever it was to come. Keeping just on the cat's tail and even speeding a bit when he heard the wolves making their presence known. It was a familiar sound at least. He suddenly found himself wishing Chev' could be trusted, as well, but alas, that simply wasn't feasible. The tensity showed in that the second the cat stopped and moved in front of him, so did he. Eyes sweeping through the wood, senses stretching as red flared more dominantly in eyes. Both concentration and an edge of irritation. Impatience.

Up. Look up. A little more than a hundred yards ahead. There in the treetops a heat signature for certain. Nearby was another familiar sound, a rustle of feathers and a scrape of talons on tree bark. Then a muffled chortle-kaw that should be rather easily recognized. All of the ranger's followers had gathered for the evening. Even that damnable bird, who for once, did not raucously croak any obscenities at the drow.

This was an elf forest, and sentries surrounded the encampment not too very far ahead. On either side, the wolves paced restlessly, panting and growling low. Tinechor's ears tipped to and fro, listening to night sounds. Then she turned, thumped her tail against Ssz'tyr's leg, and crept silently low further into the trees. Stealth was now important.

Yes. Sentries. Trees did not block his sight, after all, and it was quite far reaching. An ear even twitched. Drow almost all sacrificed a sense of smell for better hearing. Ears so attuned that they could detect shifts in stone leagues away were up to the task. He stepped where she did, nodding at the animals in turn. Amazing. No. Of all the things any competent sentry might be looking for, a drow elf being led into their camp by a bunch
of woodland creatures was surely not one of them.

He was utterly silent, with the cougar's aid and a good, healthy dose of wariness. Moving
forward. Making haste with caution. He couldn't communicate with them quite like the ranger could, no, but sometimes actions spoke louder than words. He wasn't gonna stop moving.

That sort of thing probably wasn't even on the list of training for any warrior academy. Despite the circumstances, however, what Ssz'tyr might be hoping for was a diversion. While the raven was a pain in the ass concerning most things, in some rare instances Tirion could be quite clever. "Krr-kaw! Tula sinome! Tula sinome! Tua, tua!" There was the raucous crowing he was so well known for. Not long after the drow and the cougar were several dozen yards away. Ruffling feathers and mimicked gurgling noises are what they left behind.

Along with a chorus of loud snarling and wolfish barking. There were mutters from the treetops, all in elvish. That certainly got the attention of the sentries, who by tone probably sounded very startled and very confused. "Asca! Tua amin! Asca, asca!" Then chaos erupted in the encampment as two wolves charged through the middle.

Tinechor was leading the trickster around and away from all that noise. To the very edge of the clearing and hunkered low to stare intently at a very specific wood longhouse lodging. The lash of her tail probably said it all: in there.

The Rescue
(Further adaptation of live play.)

"I take back absolutely everything I have ever said about that feather duster." Ssz'tyr said lowly to the cat, who he had a hand on, right in the middle of the shoulder blades as she walked. Eyes stayed where hers were and feet followed in her path. She, after all, knew more about stealth now than he ever would. It was her life.

Mind reached. He knew what Alquin's felt like and he was looking for it. The long house. Frown. Yes. He could get there in all the confusion, unnoticed. With the aid of a very unnatural darkness that was a talent of drow in general. It stretched and covered his path, melding with shadows that already existed to look more natural as he darted from one to the other. He moved for the entrance of said long house.

Tinechor left the rest to the trickster. She had lead him to this goal, and now it was her turn to help with other matters. More precisely, the diversion that Tirion had started. Several dozen wood elves were racing around the encampment in a panic. Wolves never attacked their sanctuaries! That sort of thing was absolutely unheard of! They were at one with the forest! Friends with the forest! How had they angered the gods? Oh my!

Even the sentries who had been set to guard two respective dwellings had got themselves tangled up in the panic. Especially since, well, the wolves had started chasing them. Megil and Sikil took to one set. Tinechor dove in to take over terrorizing the second. And Tirion, all the while, kept flying around shouting pleas for help and urgency to throw everyone off. Therefore, Ssz'tyr should have no trouble at all getting into that long house.

He was drow. And he was also fond of watching people run around like chickens with their heads cut off. So he did for a split second observe the scene with a certain amount of appreciation for the animals...and amusement for himself, before he slipped into the place, and casted a look around. At his guard, weapon at the ready. Just in case, of course.

Not the largest of the dwellings in the winter encampment, this particular long house probably only housed one family. A family that had sprung out to see what all the fuss was about the moment it started. Except for the little elf girl, not even into her fifties (toddler size), sitting on a pelt in the corner. When Ssz'tyr entered, all she could do was stare with
wide, frightened eyes. Not even so much as a scream, she was so scared.

In the center of the lodge was a post, which of course had one red-haired, tattooed ranger attached to it. Alquin was sitting there chuckling, because he knew what all that noise was about. He also thought Tirion's antics to be quite amusing. His arms were bound around the post, behind his back, and while chuckling he was struggling with trying to work his hands free of the ropes. No easy task. He'd been at it for hours.

Hearing the rustle of the flap caught his attention briefly. Until he realized that the skin he spotted in the corner of his eye wasn't tanned but much darker. Then he looked up with raised brows and obvious surprise. "Ssz'tyr." Uh.

"I grew tired of waiting for you, Alquin." With a glance at the girl, and a frown. He, surprisingly, did nothing to further that fear either. Although she may have become worried when that sword left its sheathe with a shhhink sound. "I believe I have been spoiled on your company." He grinned with that, and moved to cut the ropes for the elf in one quick little slice, and then offer the sword to him. It would have to do for now, now wouldn't it?

"Really, we should hurry. I do not imagine I am very welcome here." Another look at the girl, before... "I am not going to hurt you" In what he hoped was a calming tone.

The little girl did squeak when the sword was drawn. Quickly put her little fists up to her mouth and cowered even further into her corner, trembling. Alquin wasn't certain whether he should be pleased to see the drow or not, but he did smirk with those quips. Ah, Ssz'tyr. Maybe he did miss your good humor after all.

The moment his bonds were cut, he was quickly to his feet and pausing only to rub his chafed wrists before accepting that sword. "You no more than I, Lirimaer." Welcome here, that is. A touch of affection in that tone. He was glad to see him. He tested the weight of the blade, gave it a spin in his grasp, and then also looked over at the girl.

"Ro il-cronuva lle, Teninu." Reassuring and kind his tone, but still the girl trembled. He shook his head, perhaps saddened by the lack of response, and then looked back at the trickster. "I am not leaving without my swords." So stubborn. He made his way to the front of the tent and swept aside the flap to peer out at the chaos. "Nor am I leaving Siliviel to die."

"Siliviel?" Because Ssz'tyr, of course, had no idea whom that was. Up went a brow. "Pshaw. A drow saving elves from elves. What does the world come to." He moved to the entrance to the long house and nodded. "Then I shall help you take care of these things so we can be on our way."

You would never guess by how casually he spoke that he believed lingering here meant almost certain doom, but just as Alquin wasn't going to leave without his blades, or saving whomever it was he was talking about... Ssz'tyr wasn't leaving without Alquin.

Of course the trickster had no idea whom that was. There was much the ranger had not told Ssz'tyr about himself. Still peering out, assessing the situation, it was then that he spotted a crown of gold and bronze stepping out of the largest long house in the camp across the way. He ducked back with a hiss and let the flap of this lodge fall back into place.

Teeth bared. Fierce expression fading when he looked the drow over. "I will explain later." That was a promise. "The royal lodge is the largest, nearest to the center of this camp. Look out. Look quick. Do you see the woman standing there?"

He followed gaze and frowned slowly, brow arching over cobalt blue, before he nodded. "Good. But yes, later. She looks unpleasant. But we do not have time. Your friends can only confuse them for so long, yes...?" As much as Ssz' would like to plan, they didn't have time to play with.

Alquin nodded his agreement of that assessment, so he was quick to explain. "Her name is Lothrín. She is queen. She took my swords." And bow and quiver, but he wasn't half as concerned about them. "They will be in her lodge. If they are built the same as they have always been, there is a back entrance. Get them for me, Ssz'tyr. I will meet you beyond the camp. Tinechor will lead you." He's counting on the drow's tricks to make this mission successful.

You get his swords, Ssz'. The ranger's going after his friend. Those instructions given, he took one quick glance out of this lodge and then ducked out into the chaos to temporarily part ways.

He could do that. He opened his mouth to say more, but the ranger was gone before he could get it out. A frown played, and he slipped out as well. In no mood to play, though, for some reason the pins that floated from the holding on bicep and down to be held between fingers were all of the non-lethal variety. He went straight as an arrow for the back of the building, rolling, stretching shadows leading the way, and staff again tucked under the arm.

The ranger took no time to play games. Ssz'tyr was right. Time was of the essence. The quickest way to get to Siliviel, get out of here, and get to safety was to sprint straight across the middle of the encampment. Not the wisest thing he had ever done, no. But if anything he could also help with the diversion.

The queen spotted that blur of red hair instantly and lifted her own sword to shout a challenge, if not also draw attention away from the wild animal ruse. "En! Tel'dhaeraow taren naa o'nandor! Tula sinome! Tula amin!" She gave chase after the ranger, along with a small handful of warriors who were quick to snap to her commands. "Ndengina ho! N'leneema ho usin!"

With all the distraction slipping into that lodge and finding the swords was easily done. But once he had them he faced a personal dilemma. You see, he'd seen Alquin going through the middle of the camp, and heard... Kill him. Did he want to risk that the elf might not make it...? No. So instead of going back out the back, he went out the front. Swords were
under the same arm as that staff, and he was stealing along behind the group chasing after Alquin. Still, it was to their advantage, as no one even knew he was there. Yet.

Except for that little girl who was probably still frozen solid with fear in her lodge. Unless the trickster were still playing with shadows, it wouldn't take long for him to be spotted by the panicked crowd running circles out there. But--

Alquin was quick, and Alquin was crafty. Alquin was a master of the wood. A lord of the wood. Despite all that, he was also being chased by half a dozen other lords and ladies of the wood, and at least one of them was as skilled a shot with the bow as he was. So, Ssz'tyr ducked out just in time to hear the whistle of an arrow zing by and slam into the back of the ranger's shoulder just as he ducked around the side of one of those many dozen long houses that made up the camp in the winter.

Grunting an expletive, Alquin rolled around the wood frame and hissed. The queen cried a victorious note, praised the archer, and was probably about ten seconds from catching up to the ranger. If it weren't for that furious roar and leaping blur of gold that tackled her to the ground.

And in unison to that furious roar came the drow's own words. Oh, he had been playing with shadows until he'd seen that, yes. They melted away from his form, leaving the five seven dark elf right there in the open behind them. Hiss of words, then. Drowish. "Dos el." For you see, the air around him wasn't empty. No.

Dozens of those little pins were lazily floating about that frame. Unlike the ones in his hand, these were all assuredly quite dangerous. Cobalts blazed, flared, and they all whistled forward like a swarm of insects -- and naturally avoided Tinechor -- all hell bent on burying themselves in some elf or another. Staff was spun in hands then, right after the pins in hand were tossed into the mass. He took that weapon to the head of the nearest pointy eared sentry he came across.

Well. Their queen being tackled to the ground and mauled by a cougar had certainly stalled just about everyone. Added into that equation was the suddenly appearing drow with his spinning circle of needles. There were plenty of shouts of a familiar and impolite words that the drow had probably heard so many times before: Tel'gothrim! Along with the horrified and enraged shouts, were dozens of gurgles and other such quickly being assaulted and likely slaughtered noises.

Something that caught the ranger's attention and had him leaning around the side of the lodge he'd slumped against. ""Ssz'tyr! N'uma! Lle amada! Usina! Auta tuulo'sinome!" If sylvan elves had a word for 'fuck' it was certainly tossed in there somewhere too. Not all of the elves were too very easy to dispatch despite those nasty drow tricks. Some had ducked and dove aside in time to avoid impending doom, rolling and crouching to shoot a barrage of arrows.

Oh no. Ssz could only do so much against that many. But he was not only worried for the ranger, but also the cat. She had thrown herself into their center as well. Those arrows though, hadn't a prayer in hell in reaching him. They were caught in the swirl of projectiles and added to it, eyes blazing ever more fiercely. "Alquin! Your friend!" He jerked his head at him, and tossed the swords his way. "You do not have long." Meaning that he could only keep a host of pissed off elves busy for so long.

Of course, Ssz'tyr was right. Gritting his teeth and restraining the urge to incapacitate the trickster, Alquin growled and scooped up his swords when they landed. In a mostly fluid motion he also got to his feet and pushed away from the wall of the lodge. Took off in a dragging sort of sprint across that side of the encampment, but shouted a command in his wake.

"Do not kill them, melamin!" Had he just called him that? No. It must be the adrenaline rush and all the confusion. He dove quickly through the flap of one lodge in particular and disappeared to tend to his task of rescuing Siliviel. Meanwhile, the queen was shrieking and wrestling with one blood-thirsty, pissed off, mommy cougar.

Way to distract him, Alquin. Of course, Ecthelion was the only reason he knew that word. He had no time to think about that, though, as he very likely had more arrows to deflect. No killing, then. Truthfully, that wasn't hard to do. The lethal pins promptly dropped to the ground, and he stepped forward. Slow. Hard to maintain that swirl though. It was trying. He had to get close. He broke into a run towards them, staff spinning again.

While the ranger was busy trying to free Siliviel, whoever she was, Ssz'tyr soon found himself with battle companions. The cougar kept the queen busy. She was the most formidable foe, after all. Canine snarling joined the trickster's fray, though. Megil and Sikil were still in on this battle yet. The elves had two wolves, one insult-slinging raven, and one freaky ass mad drow to contend with for the next several minutes.

The heroes, as it were, might take a few scratches home with them, but hardly anything compared to the serious beat down the elves were going to get. Eventually, Alquin stepped out of that lodge, looking as if he had just seen a ghost. Head bowed and eyes closing, he sedately slid his sword belt onto his shoulder (the unwounded one), lifted his hands, and started to pray. Wait for it... Bzzzzzzzzz. Hear it?

Ssz was too busy to notice. At least until there was a sound. Spin, thwack, swat. Smash. He was using the staff liberally. Pause, glance. He was looking at Alquin then, for a moment. Before he had to defend himself again.

In that brief moment, Ssz'tyr might have seen just how really pissed off the ranger looked. Green eyes flared with divine grace. The sound was getting louder. Bzzzzzzzzzzzz. Seemed to be coming from all around, and up. Dawn had been creeping in and making the sky all grayish, but now some heavy cloud cover was eating all the light up. Wait. That's not cloud cover.

"...Insects?" Insects! Blues widened then, and he was moving. Fast. Giving the cat a little, urging thwap. Move, move. They could obviously leave now. He was rushing up alongside the ranger and putting a hand on his arm. "We must go, Alquin."

Oh the chuckle - heh heh heh. It almost sounded like maddened delight right there. Didn't have to tell Tinechor twice. She leapt off the queen and tore ass into the forest. The wolves not far behind her. Alquin lingered for a second, only to say, "Ripa vee'i'thoron." Spell cast. Everything was set.

He blinked at Ssz'tyr, glanced over the elves who had stopped to gawk up at the swelling sky themselves, and then nodded with a grin. "Time to fly, Ssz'tyr." So. Yes. He turned and ran. About five seconds later, an enormous swarm of flying, stinging, biting insects dropped down on the encampment like one of the Bible's legendary plagues. SLAMBZZZ! They left behind a lot of horrified screeching.