Weeping Willows

[Suede]

Here the tailor sat on his haunches, at the muddy bank of a river running down through the foothills of the border mountains between Derry and Myrken. His boots sank deep into the mud, the immaculate shine being ruined by the sludge. A heavy sigh left Suede's mouth as he stared down in distaste at the waste of good weather. He knew he should not have worn his good riding boots.

The tailor straightened lazily, hands disappearing into his pockets as he strolled further down the shoreline, feet disappearing into the cool runoff from the peaks. How he hated the heat, the sun, the summer. At least the mountains were cooler, like a good cave that everyone always insisted he lived in. Which he only did some of the time.

His eyes shifted over to the still damaged Snowstill monastery, then down the river to where Myrken and its lands lay. A small frown appeared on his face as he thought about the city, and Glenn Burnie. Oh how that man had sullied his name. Poisoning chocolate to make it addictive? Is that really the best he could make up? That he'd waste his time on such nonsense. The tailor hated being accused of crimes he didn't do, especially ones of such... lacking appeal.

No, if he was going to poison something he'd make sure it suffered and died, not just for a touch of gold. This is what brought him so far up the river, to its mouth into Myrken and eventually to feed into Silver Lake. He'd been busy of late, mixing and experimenting. His goal had been to create a special mixture for a special person. A little gift as he was want to give. Imagine how, if you will, such experiments can lead to unusual failures that could be turned into successes. And he's found two grand ones as he sat about his little apothecary mixing with mortar and pestle. The first would be used today.

Most would assume poisons, at least the tailor's, were only meant for people, perhaps a horse or two. Likely that was what Glenn had assumed when he made a mockery of the tailor's game. So he was intent today in proving to the man just how a real artist worked.

Those muddy boots waded out into the water, and Suede would keep walking, letting the water rise till he covered his head. And he would swim well out into the river, then down to its bed. It was here he'd kick aside rocks and earth to expose a hole, and in this hole he'd leave several small, dark balls drawn from a watertight pouch at his waist. Even as he began to cover them up wisps of grey would stream away from them, flowing down river.

When the tailor surfaced some time later he looked back down the river again, towards Myrken. If they wanted a villain, they'd get one. He wondered if they'd guess it was him when the forests began to rot away from the inside, when the maggots and termites were drawn in to hollow out the innards of those ancient hallmarks of nature.

Within a day or two the trees nearest the river and Silver Lake would already begin to wilt, showing signs as if they were being subject to drought.

[catch]

It was wrong. Like the black, glassy crater that lay at the edge of the lake's gently-lapping shore, like the lake's bottom itself, and that alone had been enough to repel him from the water, frightened of the symbol that now lay obliterated, but still-singing, through grains of mud and sand. Catch could not even approach the lake, but crouched miserably a ways off, seeing only the glint of flickering, seeming-peaceful water through crackling, yellowed leaves. It both drew, and repelled him, so that as he crouched there his body shook, covered in gleaming sweat that soaked through his shirt, made the hair that peeked from under his hat brim slick, turning the near-white blond black. Eventually he had to creep away, so ill he felt, but he cast a last, frightened look at the calm waters, before plunging into the foliage.

He would have the Dreamlady smell it for him, he decided. Before he told Ser Glenn. But he was certain, deep in his marrow, that the Thing he had called had done something, and he was torn, for Ser Glenn told him, on no uncertain terms, that Catch was on his last chance. What would he do, if Catch admitted to turning the waters to wickedness?

No. He'd say nothing. He would stay away. The thought that it could have been caused by another never entered his broken mind.

[Vanidor]

Haydriel was one of Lord Vanidor's last remaining weavers. Those who knew how to manipulate the skiens of magic to their will, and in doing so, assisted the Elf Lord in maintaining the strength of the forests that abounded the Silver Lake and it's environs. Val was the other, and though she had wardenship over the other half of the forest, she too stood besides her mate and peered at the slowly dying trees. They had been together for centuries, and so there was little that needed to be said from one to the other, a motion of the hand was as expressive as a speech. The cant of an eyebrow, a command! Yet, to the third who was with them, at least one would need to break the silence they often enjoyed.

So it was that Haydriel would turn his silver-haired head and glance backwards at the much taller Vanidor. He had his arms crossed over his chest, one finger idly toying with the gemmed pommel of his sword. Haydriel would cough slightly, lick his lips, then motion with his own slender fingers towards the forest. "I... Do not know, my Coron. It as if the they die of the a drought born sickness, yet it has been wet in the mountains. And the summer rains have been sufficient as well." Here, Val would continue. They truly were joined. "It is not so on the far side of the forest as of yet, though. Whatever it is, it has started here with the lake. And the spirits of the 'wood do not speak to me as they once did. Something has made them afraid."

Goldenhair would purse his lips and then nod. If the two of them did not know the root cause of this, then there was reason to worry. They had been at their craft for more years than Myrken, itself, had been a province. It was troubling. "Continue looking into this. I must contact that human authorities in Myrken about this. They will want to know, and we must make ourselves available to them to assist as needed. Haydriel. Try to make contact with Erebur to the north. Perhaps he can lend us a few of his own, always has he had more spellweavers than us."

Here he would turn slightly, looking towards his constant companion. The animal that rested upon her shoulders hissed slightly, though it's catlike gaze was directed at the stream. "Val. Start with the river. Maggera?" Again a glance, and the drowess would look back. An ear would perk up. "Come. We have some letters to write. Perhaps some of your ranger brethren could assist as well..."

Vanidor would walk away, leading his companion and her pet away from the stream. Val would look after the retreating man, then glance back at her own mate. The look said it all. It was time to get to work.

[Glenn]

When the Myrken officials (the human variety) arrived to Goldenhair's enclave, it was Glenn Burnie, and it was a few days later. This was a wistful place for the once-mapmaker, or it would have been if he was capable of such things. He had spent many an hour here finding solace and sanctuary, learning from the elves, most especially learning to speak the drowess' language. It had been a time since he had last visited however. He was one of the very few humans in Myrken with the means to visit (and truly, Burnie hoarded such truths. The ones that he and he alone seemed to possess were the most precious).

Now, though, he was here, and he walked through the enclave with familiarity as if he was strolling through the halls of Darkenhold or through the kitchen of the Broken Dagger. He was dressed in his usual fine but utilitarian fare. Somewhere in the last few years, Burnie had learned how to better deal with situations like that. He was no longer the youth who would sit under a tree and read for hours. There just wasn't time. He had people for that, and firmly suggested that they do it in a place more proper, with more dignity, and with less distraction than a tree.

So he would present Vanidor's sent note. It was one thing to move about freely. It was another to have an audience with the Councilor. He would be polite, poised, the pleasant smile sitting static upon his face. If asked to wait, he would wait, only inwardly cursing elves, their long-lives, and their lack of appreciation for the worth of a simple minute.

[Vanidor]

There were not many within the Enclave at this time of the year, it would seem. More houses seemed empty than they should have, leaving a sort of eerie silence to linger over the small village in the woods. However, those that did linger would give their greetings to Glenn. Many of them had seen him, and perhaps even assisted him, during his various studies with the most elder of elves. And, due to that familiarity, some small haste would be taken when he asked for the Councilor. Vanidor understood, to an extent, the human need for swiftness in action. That was their gift, he had often said to others. Such versatility!

In any case. Glenn would be quickly directed to the rear of the Coron-Hall, where Vanidor was in the midst of preparing a meal. The tall elf had his hair bound back behind him in a long braid, and an apron of dun brown covering the front of his torso. Sleeves were rolled up, exposing deceptively slender arms. He was wielding a knife with some skill, chopping what smelled like an onion with quick motions of the blade.

"Ah. Master Burnie. A pleasure, as always. I would invite thee to sup with us tonight, but I have a feeling that thou wilst be needing to leave as soon as we are done talking, hm? Ever it is, when one strives for the common good." Vanidor knew why he was here, of course. The forest was dying. And faster than it should have been even possible. "Hah. And the common good is oft slapped in the face by the deceit of the shadow, no? Shall I be succinct then?" He would wipe down the edge of his knife upon his apron, sliding the chopped onion into a bowl and folding those slender arms of his.

"Something has turned the spirits of the forest against us. My spellweavers are out there now, but I am worried." And if he was worried... Then that was saying much, for the ancient elf was rarely worried by anything.

[Glenn]

Versatility. If one word could define Glenn Burnie, it would likely be something less flattering, but if you had thirty or forty words to use for such a definition, that might be one of them. Patient would likely not make that second cut. This was an exception, however, and not due to some sort of sensitivity to different species and different people. The simple fact of the matter was that the Council was somewhat gutted these days and Burnie had to stay on Goldenhair's good side. His authority was tenuous at best after all.

Granted, he seemed to have little to argue with the elf about in the first place. Burnie may not have been a friend to the forests and fields, but he was no enemy. Their well being was part of Myrken's, at least for now. Expansion was occurring, but considering all the rebuilding that was still ongoing from disasters past and present, there was plenty of room for everyone... for now.

And truly, it was not hard being patient with Vanidor. The elf may have a roundabout way of speaking, but at least he was well aware of it. At least he was making an effort. That sort of thing mattered a great deal to the once-mapmaker; making an effort was important.

So, due to the combination of Goldenhair's effort and Glenn's need to defer to him on these matter, his response was patient and polite, with only the bare minimum of decorum. "Thank you Councilor, both for hospitality and your promptness. Unfortunately, no, I can't stay for long, due to both this crises and others that have begun to develop. It is a season for shadows, it would seem, a misplaced winter. That said, your people have their skills and I would not imagine trying to interfere in them doing their duty. Myself and my people have our skills. How can we best assist your efforts?" Simple and to the point, and showing a surprising amount of deference. Glenn wanted to be hands on with everything, to control every investigation. If deferring here made him chafe somehow, there was no sign. His smile was constant and pleasant, just like always.

[Vanidor]

Vanidor nods. "It is a shame. We brought down a magnificent stag last night, and it has been cooking since this morning. Perhaps I will send a haunch to your home later?" It is a manner of focusing his mind, really. The manner in which he speaks. The human tongue is a matter of simplicity compared to his own language. The way it flowed. Hah! The way that there was nearly ten different ways just to say hello! Still. He moves away from the board, taking off the apron and setting it on a table nigh.

"A few letters to deliver. Your... postal service is a bit more reliable than asking the trees to whisper messages. Though please, do not tell the druids that." He grinned a bit at this. "And any information from the outlying regions. You know we are not many, here. I have sent all of our rangers to rove the forest and search for signs of what causes this decay. Personally, I believe it to be the lake itself... It is a cursed thing, at times, you know." Vanidor takes a breath, hands coming down to rest on a nearby chairback. Here he is glancing out the window, peering at the forest around them.

"I will be leaving on an expedition into the mountains on the 'morrow. Perhaps this is coming from upstream, beyond our own borders even. The Light knows that trouble does not just strike Myrken... ah, though it certainly seems like it does." Truly, that was why Vanidor and his elves had settled here and started their wardenship. Who knows how many things they had averted before the humans had come. And after, even, when they were of a number to make a difference. "I assure you that I will be reachable. And I will send what reports I can. Now, though. Is there aught else? Shall I look into something specific for you while I am out there?"

[Glenn]

Languages were one of Burnie's few real academic weak points. It had been a testament to his sheer obsession that he had been able to so thoroughly master the language of Vanidor's mate, if mate was in fact correct term for her. While he could ask an elf to pass the wine, please, in a tongue that the Councilor might prefer, that was about the limit of it. This was serious business and it was best to be discussed in the most efficient manner possible.

Despite the seriousness of the matter, Burnie continued to smile pleasantly, continued to stand. Perhaps it was due to the walking stick he carried with him, due to the fact that getting up and sitting down might take some effort with his limp. It was likely that even those few seconds he would save mattered after losing so many treating with elves. If he had been offended in the least at Vanidor's multi-tasking, there was no sign of it. "Letters we can help with, certainly. The lake is an interesting matter."

Here there would be a pause. The once-mapmaker was no longer quite capable of introspection, but sometimes one had to get one's words just right. "We have a.. sensitive in Myrken these days, a broken being of great power, a troubled soul, to be frank a madman. He means well but needs much supervision. In fact, not long ago he hurt numerous people when lashing out at a Baie cultist." As far as information dumps went, that was a lot all at once, but it hardly mattered. If Vanidor wanted to jump on any of that, he was welcome to. Otherwise... "Recently, when we spoke, he told me of a great eye opening up at the bottom of the lake." And here Burnie would simply stop and shrug slightly. He had sent an urchin down there and the child had survived it seeming none the worse for wear.

[Vanidor]

"An... Eye? Perhaps he means a portal of some sort. Only visible at certain times perhaps?" Vanidor pursed his lips with this information. "You are not suggesting he comes here, do you? This madman of yours? I think I have smelt him moving through the forest. Like an old grave and mouldy wine." That was if it was the same person. Who could know, for the forest was full of all sorts of strange and interesting (and often mad) creatures.

Vanidor stepped across the room and to a satchel that rested upon a hook. Into it he would reach, and a small bundle of letters were withdrawn. The Councilor would turn, then offer the parcel to Glenn. "Here. The letters I mentioned earlier. Oh, by the by, Master Glenn. Shall you be taking up the Governor's Office? It would seem a logical step, the way you have been moving lately. And I doubt that Calomel will be returning anytime soon. You know how Myrken is. Once gone this long..." Not that some had not returned. He had heard word that Bromn had been seen in town. And the Light knew how often THAT man had vanished and reappeared. It was almost chronic! And sad that it spoke to how Myrken operated.

"Or are you content with running the Constable's Office? It is fitting for you, I think." Back to the cutting board. There really was a feast to prepare for. "Are you sure you cannot join us? I know Maggera would enjoy your company for an evening."

[Glenn]

"He's powerful and such power, unchecked and unmonitored here in Myrken has, time after time, lead to pain and tragedy." Vanidor knew that as well as Burnie, very likely better for all the more years he had seen. "That said, no, I have yet to bring him here and I would not, unless you thought it for the best." Glenn had hoped to force a humanity into Catch where it may not have EVER existed, to civilize him and use that civility as a chain, firm and tight, to keep Myrken safe. "If you thought good would come of it," Burnie's pleasant smile remained as he looked about the room. "well, when I was at my worst I found solace and sanctuary here. He has a strong connection to the forest. I defer to your judgment once again."

And perhaps it was such deference that led to Goldenhair's next question. Calomel had trivialized the elf in some ways, had forced him into the small niche of the forests in his attempt to manage the Council. With Spier's disappearance over a year before, Burnie had encouraged the Councilor and his enclave to focus on agriculture as well and Myrken had benefited because of it. Glenn was a young man of papers and cities, of buildings and humans. He did not mind deferring to specialists when it made sense and here it made the most sense at all.

So he would take the letters and then be at a bit of a loss. The smile did not exactly fade, but it both brightened and darkened at once. "Cinnabar is not.. he has not COMPLETELY withdrawn from public life." In that Burnie could at least reach him when he had to (theoretically) and he did what he did in the man's name, and in the withered Council's name as well. It gave him a certain amount of freedom from blame and procedure. The hand behind the throne could move far more freely.

Finally, he would speak on, his words careful enough. "Cinnabar took the position through a coup. It was the right decision for the time and we were all the better for it, but I would not just take the position. If you charge me to do so, then that would be a different matter, Councilor, but it would not be my first choice. Years ago, when I was younger and very powerless, I wanted nothing more than I wanted titles and the means to make a difference. Now that I have it, all I want is for Myrken to thrive and be healthy." Glenn's voice was crisp and clear. If he was lying or playing some game, he seemed to be among those fooled. "I've done my best in my current role over the last year. If the Council feels that I need further legitimacy to deal with the crises we are beginning to encounter, then I will defer to your wisdom once again." Perhaps it was Goldenhair playing the game though, for with just a little sigh, Burnie continued. "And yes, I suppose, this once, I can stay for the meal. As I said, solace and sanctuary and I do not think I have ever eaten better."

[Vanidor]

In all honesty, Calomel didn't have to try hard to convince the elf to maintain his presence in the forest and leave it too that. It was, as they say, what he did. The forest was his home moreso than any other part of the province. Even any other part of the world, when one came to think on it. Perhaps, perhaps, if he and his people ever returned to their true home, then they would feel the same sort of peace they maintained here in the Enclave. Perhaps.

"There is something about spending time here amoungst the calming winds of the Enclave, Master Burnie. You know it as well as I. And you know that we will accept any who comes as long as they promise to practice no ill against another while they are within the environs. It has long been a place of respite for those who have sought to rule in Myrken. Both in front of the chair, and those behind it." For all intents and purposes, the Enclave was a neutral entity within the realm of Myrken. It made things... tense at times. But then, that was how Vanidor seemed to like it. It certainly kept the proper folk on their toes! And perhaps provided some amusement to the centuries old elf.

"Now then. If you wish the position, I will of course uphold you should you require it. That is up to you, though I deem that you do well where you are now. And there is little need for more authority, you certainly wield what you have now effectively enough. Though, I would suggest reforming the council to some degree. If only for appearances sake." Now then, Vanidor would pluck up his kitchen knife, wiping the edge off with a thumb. "If you do not, however, then we will not speak of it again. But for now. Would you mind passing that bundle of carrots? I need to finish making this stew, and perhaps, in that time, Haydriel or Val will return with some heartening news." Vanidor smiled, extending a slender hand and holding his palm open for the carrots. They were near to where Glenn was standing.

"Perhaps you should invite this friend of yours to the dinner as well? Or, at the least, to another one. Hah! If the forest will maintain us that long at least." Vanidor would only smile that enigmatic smile of his.

[Glenn]

The enclave no longer brought him peace. His heart no longer felt calmed merely by being here. Food did not taste so good. Music was not so beautiful. Flowers no longer smelled so sweet. Yet he was utterly content. There was not a doubt in his mind. Crystal perfection.

Reforming the Council. Burnie rather liked the status quo. There were just enough of them left that he WAS legitimate. Anymore could cause problems though. And was he legitimate enough to pick them? Were there any good choices to begin with? It was a thought for later.

For now, Glenn, in his fairly fine clothes, actually went and started to help the elf prepare food. Goldenhair had just said that he'd support him if he wanted to be governor. That earned quite a bit, whether he wanted the position or not. It had been a while, yes, but the once-mapmaker had earned many a meal by helping out in a kitchen over the years. He'd earn one more now, even if he seemed terribly unnatural doing so these days. "Maybe I'll invite Catch at some point, but not tonight. Such an outing would take a bit more planning."

[Drache]

--Lilani--

As those in the elfen enclave busied themselves with whatever tasks they deemed necessary for their goal of ferreting out the source of the forest's suffering, a long dark shape slid serenely by along the top of the water, paddling expertly with a long rounded tail and the casual flicks of large webbed feet. Lilani was a drifter and though she wouldn't have been surprised to learn of Lord Vanidor and his organization of spell-weavers, she had not met them, was not one of them. It was the lurk of undead and the unnatural sickness coming over many of the Myrken inhabitants that had enticed her to stay awhile in the area and work long hours in the Rememdium for virtually no reimbursement for her time, but a Druid could not simply sit back and watch the forest die all around her. So here she was, her thick fur slippery as silk as she searched the waterway for any indication of why it seemed to have turned it to poison for the trees. Her nostrils closed and with a flick of her blunt head, she dove under the water, rooting among the rocks at the bottom for anything out of the ordinary. She'd recovered many a lost and rusty trinket today, but nothing helpful at all. She surfaced again and paddled to shore, leaping up onto the bank with a splash. At nearly ten feet long, an otter of her size hadn't been seen in these parts in...probably ever. In the Wildshape of a massive mustelid, she skittered along the bank, pausing briefly to shake her thick fur and spray water everywhere. Her dark eyes peered out across the water and she sighed. But then her head bobbed as the smell of cooking drifted by her and she turned in its direction.