She burst into the ruined clearing, her eyes instantly finding Lima, crumpled and weeping amidst the splintered trees, her anguish a raw, primal sound. Stransa rushed to her, her heart aching for the sister she had just reconnected with, now once more facing unimaginable loss. She knelt beside Lima, pulling her still-living, trembling form into a tight embrace.
"Lima! Sister, calm yourself!" Stransa murmured, though her own voice was thick with unspoken tears. She held Lima close, feeling the tremors wracking the primordial's body, the very earth seeming to weep alongside her. "Grimma... she lives on, within Nott. Her sacrifice was not for nothing. She chose this, for the child. For all of us." Stransa held her sister tight, rocking her gently, a silent plea for Lima to hold onto the fragment of hope amidst the overwhelming grief.
Lima, however, pushed away from Stransa, her moss-wrought face contorted, not just with sorrow, but with a sudden, furious resentment. "Grimma lives on? What foolishness is this, Stransa? She is GONE! Extinguished! For a mortal! For a mere wolfkin!" Her voice rose, raw with disbelief and anger, rattling the broken branches around them. "You speak of kinship, but what kinship could there be between a primordial and... that?" She gestured wildly towards the unconscious Nott with a gnarled hand. "It is an abomination! A perversion of all that is ancient and pure!"
Stransa recoiled as if struck, her own grief quickly turning to a fierce defensiveness. "An abomination? Lima, how dare you! Nott is not an abomination! She is something new, yes, something we cannot yet comprehend, but she is vibrant and strong and, by Grimma's choice, imbued with a power unlike any before!" Stransa’s voice gained conviction, rising to meet Lima's fury. "She is Grimma's chosen, her vessel, her successor in essence! She is not simply wolfkin; she is something entirely new now, touched by primordial grace! She is not kin in the way we understand it, perhaps, but she carries a part of our legacy. She carries Grimma!"
"She carries Grimma's death!" Lima screamed, her voice a guttural roar, resonating with the very despair of the earth. Her leafy form swelled, her wings flaring out with a furious rustle. "Grimma, a primordial, one of the oldest and most powerful, sacrificed herself for a mortal! For a fragile, insignificant wolfkin child! It is an indignity! A disgrace to our kind! She chose to end her existence for a mere animal!" Her eyes burned with a cold fire. "I cannot accept this! I will not! This Nott is a living monument to Grimma's folly, a mockery of our power, a reminder of what we have lost, and for what? For a fleeting, fragile life!"
"For a life that freed me!" Stransa shot back, her voice ringing with defiance, the echoes of her thousand-year imprisonment lending sharp edges to her words. "Do you forget, sister? If it wasn't for that 'fragile, insignificant wolfkin,' as you so readily dismiss her, I would still be rotting in Trogvir's prison! A thousand years more, perhaps! She found me! She risked her life for me! She brought me back to you! Do not insult her sacrifice, and do not insult Grimma's choice, by calling Nott an abomination! She is a survivor, Lima, just like us, and now she holds a power that will surely aid us against the very darkness that consumed Lyraen and imprisoned me!" Stransa stood firm, defiantly placing herself between Lima and the unconscious Nott, her eyes blazing with a protective fury that matched Lima's grief-fueled rage.
Lima's eyes narrowed, a chilling calculation entering their depths, pushing past the raw grief. Her voice, though still powerful, took on a cutting edge, cold and deliberate. "Were it not for the fact that you, Stransa, my sister, have just returned from a thousand years of torment... were it not for my respect for what you have endured... I would extinguish that child myself. For her very existence is a transgression against Grimma's memory, against our sacred being."
Stransa gasped, stepping further forward, shielding Nott even in her unconscious state. "Grimma chose this, Lima! Nott had no choice in it! She was a dying child, attacked by a fae! Grimma saw something in her, a potential, a light worth preserving at any cost! Do not twist Grimma's sacrifice into Nott's fault! Do not make her death a burden on an innocent!"
Lima's leafy form stiffened, an icy finality settling over her. Her gaze, now devoid of warmth, swept over Nott and Vidar, then settled on Stransa. "I will allow them to remain in my woods until the wolfkin child can travel. No longer. Then you will all leave. And do not return, Stransa, until you can see sense. Until you can understand the true enormity of what has been lost for so little. This grove will not house an abomination born of my sister's misguided end."
Stransa's shoulders slumped for a fleeting moment, then straightened, a new, deep disappointment settling in her eyes. "I am disappointed in you, Lima." The words, softly spoken but heavy with millennia of shared history and renewed hope now dashed, hung in the devastated air between them. "After all this time, after all that we have both suffered, I had hoped... I had hoped you would understand. That you would see the promise, not just the pain. You speak of our kind, our sacred being, yet you turn your back on the newest manifestation of it. On a gift Grimma offered in sacrifice."
The words struck Lima with the force of a physical blow. A faint tremor ran through her moss-and-root form, a subtle shiver of the leaves that made up her hair. For an instant, a flicker of pain crossed her shadowed features, a deep, ancient hurt at Stransa's condemnation. But pride, and the raw, still-bleeding wound of Grimma's loss, were too powerful. She remained outwardly rigid, her gaze hardening further, refusing to acknowledge the sting of her sister's disappointment. Her face remained a mask of stony resolve, concealing the turmoil within.
The morning in Petirorin dawned with a cool breeze, carrying the faint, earthy scent of ancient stone and, beneath it, something deeper, almost mineral – the subtle aroma of the dragon bones that formed the city's very foundation. Errin, her usually vibrant energy buzzing with curiosity, led the way, her dark glasses reflecting the unfamiliar cityscape. Beside her, Troth ambled, his wide eyes taking in every detail with earnest wonder, his lute silent for now. This was their first time in the Dragon City, a place of legend whispered in the halls of their distant homes.
Errin had only been a recent graduate of the Southern Bardic College of Phygiria, her home country, affectionately known as the "Home of the First Note." It was the ancestral land of the batkin people, fiercely protected by their goddess of music, Amalthius. The Southern College was renowned across all of Lore for its unparalleled storytellers, bards who could weave narratives so vivid they felt like lived experience. Its rival, the Northern Bardic College, specialized in pure music, their melodies capable of stirring souls without a single spoken word. Errin's brother had chosen the Northern, a rift that had persisted between them ever since.
"Just imagine, Troth," Errin mused, gesturing with a flourish towards a towering spire of what looked like polished bone. "This city... it's a saga in itself. Every brick, every alleyway, holds a thousand stories. And it's our sacred duty, as bards, to find them, to learn them, to polish them until they shine like the finest jewels."
"So, like... we're living history, then?" Troth asked, his brow furrowing in a thoughtful, if slightly confused, way. "Like, the sagas aren't just old tales, but things we... make happen by telling them?"
Errin laughed, a bright, clear sound that chimed in the narrow street. "Precisely, Troth! We are the memory of Lore manifest. We don't just recount history; we embody it, shape it with our words and our melodies. A truly great bard doesn't just tell a story; they make you feel the courage of the hero, the despair of the fallen, the triumph of the underdog! We are the living archives, the beating heart of every epoch!"
"So, if a hero did something really brave, and then we sang about it, would they get even braver?" Troth asked, completely earnest. "Like, could we make the world a better place just by singing really good songs?"
"In a sense, yes, Troth! A song can inspire a thousand new heroes! A saga can prevent a thousand old mistakes! We carry the echoes of the past to guide the steps of the future!" Errin's voice swelled with passion, her small frame radiating conviction. "That's why bards are so vital! We are the conscience of kings, the voice of the voiceless, the—"
Errin stopped mid-sentence. Her blonde hair, usually defying gravity, seemed to subtly flatten. Her batkin ears, incredibly sensitive, twitched, rotating almost imperceptibly as her phead tilted. Her eyes, hidden behind the dark lenses, slowly closed, her entire being focusing inward. The bustling sounds of Petirorin—the street vendors' cries, the clang of distant blacksmiths, the murmur of the crowd—faded into a dull hum. In her mind's ear, an entirely different soundscape emerged, a precise, almost terrifyingly quiet symphony of movement. Four distinct, incredibly faint whispers of motion, barely audible to even her enhanced hearing, painting a picture: soft impacts, the brush of clothing against stone, the rhythmic grace of trained bodies, leaving a building and fanning out in different directions, moving with chilling efficiency across the rooftops, almost imperceptible to normal hearing.
Her eyes snapped open, a cold shiver running up her spine that had nothing to do with the morning breeze. "The Silent," she breathed, the name barely a whisper, the usual exuberance draining from her face, replaced by a grim understanding. She knew exactly what that could mean. And it meant very little good for anyone involved.
Petirorin: The Silent Trail
Errin tugged sharply on Troth's shirt, pulling the hulking bovinekin's attention away from a particularly fascinating puddle. "Troth," she whispered, her voice low and urgent, devoid of its usual playful lilt, "I'm pretty sure... I'm pretty sure The Silent are in Petirorin." Her brow furrowed, a deep line appearing between her eyes as she thought, her mind racing to piece together the implications. Why would Asha send out her personal guard? Here? And in such a manner? This is more than a diplomatic visit.
She tugged on Troth's shirt again, more insistently this time, her small batkin face serious. "That means Queen Asha is in the city, Troth. And if her Silent are out, something big is happening. Something important."
Troth's brow wrinkled, his simple eyes clouding with concern. "The Silent? But... Errin, they're not good news. They mean trouble. And you know we try to stay out of trouble. Neutral ground, remember?" He shifted his weight nervously, his lute swaying gently. Getting involved with royal guards, especially those royal guards, was strictly against his better judgment. This story is hosted at novelping . com.
"I know, I know!" Errin insisted, her voice dropping even lower, an urgent whisper. "But don't you see? If Asha is here, and they're here, it's not just trouble for us. It could be a story, Troth! A huge one! One that could change everything! And we're bards! We're supposed to be where the history is made!" She squeezed his arm, her small fingers surprisingly strong. "Please, Troth. Just... follow them. We don't have to get involved involved. Just observe. Learn. For the sagas!"
Troth sighed, a long, mournful sound that rustled his thick fur. He looked from Errin's determined face to the distant, towering structures of the city, and back again. He didn't want to get into trouble. But he also knew that look in Errin's eyes. When she had that glint, there was no stopping her. And she was his best friend. "Alright, Errin," he rumbled, resignation in his voice. "But if we get arrested, you're singing our way out of jail."
Errin's grin, though still subdued, was triumphant. "Deal! Now come on, before they're gone!" With that, she began to move, melting into the bustling crowd, her keen senses already tracking the imperceptible movements of The Silent. Troth, with another sigh, hoisted his lute higher on his shoulder and lumbered after her, his gentle nature overridden by his unwavering loyalty.
Following the Silent Shadow
Errin and Troth moved through the labyrinthine streets of Petirorin, a peculiar, mismatched shadow trailing an even more peculiar one. Errin, with her heightened batkin senses, focused intently on the subtle disturbances in the air, the nearly imperceptible shifts in pressure that marked the path of one of the Silent. She led Troth through bustling marketplaces, past quiet residential squares, and along the very edges of rooftops, always just out of sight, her small frame surprisingly adept at urban stealth. Troth, for his part, tried his best to keep up, his large hooves remarkably soft on the cobblestones, his genial smile momentarily replaced by a look of bewildered concentration.
Their chosen Silent, a figure of dark, lacquered plates and silent menace, moved with chilling efficiency. They didn't engage in polite inquiries. Instead, their methods were swift and brutal. Errin and Troth watched from the gloom of an alley as the Silent cornered a frightened-looking courier, the brief, silent struggle ending with the courier whimpering, bruised, but undeniably compliant, before the Silent melted back into the shadows with a freshly acquired parchment. Later, in a hushed corner of a tavern, they observed the Silent use a silent, unnerving intimidation on a grimy informant, extracting whispers that no one else seemed to notice.
Through these brutal, clandestine interrogations, Errin and Troth began to piece together a grim narrative. They learned that a wolfkin girl, named Nott, had indeed been taken into custody by the fae, held in the dark cells beneath the Fae Consulate. They heard whispers of her impossible escape, a bewildering event that had left the fae officials baffled and furious. Following that, a hunter fae—a fearsome reputation conveyed even without a name—had been hired for the pursuit. The most chilling detail, however, was the confirmation that this hunter had confronted a Tigren, a powerful warrior, and in the ensuing fight, had killed him. While the name of the hunter's employer remained a mystery, the pieces clicked: Steven, the prince of Nan du Tua, had been murdered.
The implications settled heavily on Errin. A prince of Nan du Tua, a beastkin nation, murdered in defense of a wolfkin girl? Wolfkin were generally disliked, often scorned, by many catkin—a historical animosity that made this act of sacrifice deeply intriguing. Errin's heart thrummed. This wasn't just a story; this was a colossal, unfolding saga, ripe with intrigue, sacrifice, and unexpected alliances. It was the kind of tale that could reshape narratives and challenge long-held beliefs.
The Silent eventually led them back to the imposing stone edifice of the Nan du Tua consulate. Once inside, they vanished completely, leaving Errin and Troth with no further leads within the city's walls. But they had gathered enough. A prince, a warrior of Steven's caliber, murdered for a wolfkin girl.
"Troth," Errin breathed, her eyes gleaming behind her dark glasses, her usual theatricality replaced by a quiet, fierce determination. "We have to find this Nott. We simply have to."
Luckily, from the consul's hushed reports of the hunter's last known trajectory, Errin had a good idea of the direction they had gone. The forest. And she knew just the place to start looking.