The Exodus from the Grove
The grove, now a sanctuary offering only a fragile, temporary truce, had to be left behind. Asha, her resolve set, led the way. Nott, still pale and weak, her small body holding the immense, unsettling power of Grimma, was gently supported by Vidar. Stransa, a warrior herself, walked with an ancient weariness, but her eyes held a fierce light. Lima had withdrawn, a silent, disapproving presence in the scarred remnants of her domain.
The journey back was arduous. The group made their way to the cliffs overlooking the turbulent river. The same fallen tree that had been Nott's unlikely salvation now served as their perilous bridge. The wood was still slick, the current still roared beneath, but this time, they had each other. Vidar went first, testing the trunk, his large form surprisingly steady. Then Stransa, guiding Nott carefully, step by precarious step, while Asha watched their every move, her hand on her dagger, ready for any unseen threat. The climb back up the cliff face, over loose scree and jagged rocks, was slow and grueling for Nott, who still seemed to be suffering the aftershocks of her transformation. Asha, ever practical, decided to lead her pack beast instead of riding it, ensuring they could maintain a pace that accommodated Nott's fragile state.
They pressed on, the journey back towards Petirorin a grim, silent march. Half a day into their return, as the sun began its slow descent, painting the western sky in hues of orange and purple, a familiar sight appeared on the road ahead. A towering bovinekin with a lute, and a small batkin with bright blonde hair and dark glasses.
An Unlikely Alliance
Asha's eyes, sharp and assessing, took in the two bards. An odd pair. "Who are you?" Asha demanded, her tone clipped, her hand instinctively moving to the hilt of her blade.
Errin, undaunted by Asha's stern demeanor, stepped forward, her theatrical flair undimmed. "Greetings, madam!" she chirped, a slight bow. "Errin, at your service! And this is my loyal companion, Troth. We're traveling bards, new to this region, and we happened to be heading towards the forest, drawn by the... impressive sounds of what must have been quite a storm." She gestured vaguely towards the distant, scarred trees. "It seems we've stumbled upon... well, quite the company."
Asha's brow furrowed, suspicion plain on her face. "And what precisely is your business so far from any town, bard?"
"Our business is simply where the wind takes us, and where good stories are to be found," Errin replied, her voice dropping to a more serious tone. "And it sounds like a truly epic tale unfolded back there. Since we seem to be heading in the same direction, back towards Petirorin, it only makes sense for us to travel together. Safety in numbers, especially with such... eventful happenings afoot."
Asha's skepticism was evident. "You wish to join us? My path is dangerous, and I have little patience for idle songs or foolish questions."
"Oh, but madam," Errin countered smoothly, "we are far from idle. We are historians, chroniclers, and a well-placed song can move mountains, or minds, in ways a sword cannot. Besides," she winked, "we're surprisingly useful. Troth here carries enough supplies for an army, and I have ears that miss very little. We could be... an asset. And," she added, her voice dropping conspiratorially, "every grand journey deserves its chronicler, wouldn't you agree? To tell the tale properly, for the ages?"
Asha paused, a flicker of something in her eyes. The thought of having a chronicler of Steven's final actions, and the grand, painful saga unfolding around Nott, appealed to a part of her. But more practically, Errin's words about her senses and supplies registered. It would speed their journey.
"Very well," Asha conceded with a clipped nod, her expression still severe. "You may travel with us. But keep your songs quiet, and your questions few. And do not, for a moment, forget whose authority you are under." She gave a subtle nod, accepting their presence.
A New Voice
As Asha turned to confer with Vidar about the path ahead, Errin bounded over to Nott. Troth offered a reassuring smile. Nott, still emotionally fragile, looked up at the batkin. Vidar, unfamiliar with Errin and Troth and wary of the new additions, kept a protective stance near Nott, his eyes on the newcomers.
"Hello there, little spark!" Errin chirped, her voice gentle, completely different from her earlier grand pronouncements. She squatted down to Nott's eye level. Nott, surprised by the direct address from a stranger, watched her. Then, Errin's hands began to move, fluidly and expressively. "You're Nott, aren't you? It's so good to finally meet you. I'm Errin."
Nott's eyes widened. She stared at Errin's hands, then back at her face. A slow, incredulous realization dawned on her. This stranger, this vibrant, unusual batkin, was speaking her language. She wasn't just guessing; she was signing. Someone else. Someone who wasn't Vidar.
A tiny, hopeful gasp escaped Nott's lips. Her own hands, tentative at first, began to sign back, a flurry of gestures conveying a question she rarely dared to ask aloud. "You... you can sign? You understand me?"
Errin's smile softened, radiating warmth. "Yes, little one. I understand you perfectly." Find the original chapter at g.com.
In that moment, something shifted within Nott. The weight of grief for Steven, the bewildering power of Grimma, the cold scorn of Lima—all faded, if only for a moment. To be understood, truly understood, by a new person. It was a liberation. A sense of self, long muted by the world, began to reassert itself. She was still Nott, the wolfkin girl, but now, a flicker of her old boundless energy returned. She signed, faster now, a torrent of unspoken thoughts and feelings finally finding an outlet, her small hands articulating questions and emotions that had been trapped within her for years, finally able to fully communicate with someone beyond her brother. She seemed to become more of herself, her spirit, long constrained by silence, finding a vibrant new voice.
The rest of the trip back to Petirorin seemed to fly by, almost as if the road itself had shortened underfoot. The constant, easy flow of communication between Errin and Nott seemed to invigorate the entire group. Nott, now able to express herself fully, signed a torrent of questions to Errin about the outside world, about bards, about flight, and Errin, in turn, eagerly shared stories of her travels, her life in Phygiria, and the magic of music, her hands dancing in precise, expressive movements. Their laughter, Nott's silent giggles, and Errin's bright chirps, became a new, joyful rhythm to their journey.
Troth and Vidar walked side by side for much of the journey, a silent understanding growing between the hulking bovinekin and the stoic wolfkin. They spoke in quiet murmurs, mostly about the two spirited women in their lives, the constant whirlwind of trouble they seemed to attract, and the unspoken weight of being their protectors. Troth, with his simple, earnest questions, and Vidar, with his quiet, thoughtful responses, found common ground in their shared burdens and unwavering loyalty.
Later, as the light began to fade and the shadows lengthened, Stransa slowed her pace, falling back to walk beside Vidar. She glanced towards Errin and Nott, who were still deeply engrossed in their animated, silent conversation.
"She's... quite convenient, isn't she?" Stransa murmured to Vidar, her voice low, a hint of ancient weariness in her tone. "This batkin. Appearing out of nowhere, knowing everything, and able to communicate with Nott as if it were nothing." Her eyes, sharp and discerning, narrowed slightly. "I don't fully trust her. It's too convenient, this instant, growing friendship."
Vidar sighed, a heavy sound. "She seems harmless enough, Stransa. And Nott... Nott is happy. Truly happy for the first time in a long while." He then added with a faint smile, "Nott would make friends with a stone if it could think."
Stransa considered Nott, now giggling silently with Errin. "I know," she conceded, a wry, almost playful twist of her lips, despite her lingering suspicions.
Petirorin: A Brief Respite
The group finally arrived at the Nan du Tua consulate, the moon a brilliant disc at its highest point in the night sky, casting long, stark shadows across the city of bone. Callie, ever diligent, met them at the grand entrance. Asha, with practiced foresight, had draped a dark, concealing cloak over Nott, whose exhaustion was evident even in her still movements, to avoid any undue suspicion or attention from curious eyes. Callie, her nervous energy now tempered by a quiet competence, quickly ushered them through the hushed halls and up to the consulate dorms.
Nott was asleep almost before her head hit the pillow, her small body finally surrendering to weeks of accumulated fatigue and the sheer ordeal she had endured. This was the first true bed she had slept on in what felt like an eternity.
The Queens' Counsel
In a more secluded common room within the dorms, Asha, Savine, and Callie gathered, the gravity of their situation settling over them like a shroud. The fatigue of the journey and the confrontation still clung to Asha, but her focus was unwavering.
"She's settled," Callie whispered, still wide-eyed with the events of the day. "Fast asleep."
"Good," Asha grunted, pouring herself a cup of steaming tea. "Now, to the matter at hand. Hector confessed to hiring Trogvir. He believes Trogvir went rogue." She looked from Callie to Savine. "But I doubt that. Trogvir, or whatever possessed him, was after Nott with extreme prejudice. And the magic... it was unlike anything I've seen in the fae military ranks. This runs deeper than a rogue agent."
Savine, ever calm, steepled her fingers. "Indeed. Hector's fear when you mentioned Nott was telling. The fae clearly desire the child, for reasons yet unknown, and will stop at nothing. We cannot risk a prolonged stay in Petirorin."
"Risk?" Asha scoffed. "We risk a full-blown invasion just being in their territory. My instincts scream for us to leave, now."
"And your instincts are correct, sister," Savine conceded, her violet eyes thoughtful. "The question is, how do we leave? The fae control the teleportation gates here. If they truly want Nott, they could easily tamper with the conduits, divert us, or worse."
Callie, who had been listening intently, interjected nervously, "The fae gates... they can be monitored. Traced. If they were expecting you to leave via that method, they would know."
"Precisely," Savine affirmed. "It offers them too much control. Too many opportunities for interception." She paused, then stated with quiet resolve, "We take a ship. Back to Nan du Tua. It will be slower, but it offers us security. Once we're on the open seas, beyond their immediate reach, we'll be far safer from their manipulations."
Asha nodded, a grim satisfaction settling on her features. "A ship it is. Make the arrangements, Callie. Discretely. We leave at dawn."
Callie's eyes widened, then she nodded, a newfound determination in her gaze. "Yes, Your Majesty. I will see to it." She quickly exited, leaving the two queens in the quiet common room, their resolve set on a course back home, carrying a secret that could shatter the fragile peace of lore
Petirorin: Setting Sail
The docks of Petirorin teemed with the hushed bustle of pre-dawn departure. The air was cool and salty, carrying the scent of brine and distant fish. A sleek, fast Nan du Tua merchant vessel, hastily chartered and crewed by loyal beastkin, waited, its gangplank already lowered. Asha and Savine stood on the quay, overseeing the final preparations. Their guards were already aboard, and Hector, undoubtedly under heavy magical ward, was secured below deck.
Nott, looking much more rested, though still quiet, stood beside Vidar. As they prepared to board, Nott tugged on Vidar's sleeve, her small hands moving with rapid purpose. "Errin and Troth. They come too?"
Vidar looked from Nott to Asha, a familiar sigh escaping him. He knew this would be a difficult ask. "Nott wants to know if Errin and Troth can come with us, Your Majesty," he translated, his voice a low rumble.
Asha's expression, already grim with the weight of their mission, hardened further. "Absolutely not," she stated, her voice clipped. "We are not taking a bardic troupe on a clandestine voyage back to our home nation. This is not a pleasure cruise, nor a performance tour. It is a matter of state, and danger follows us."
Nott's face fell, her hands dropping to her sides. Then, with a surge of renewed determination, she signed again, looking directly at Asha. "Errin knows about stories. Great sagas. She said bards are history. She can tell Steven's story. Properly. So everyone knows how brave he was."
Asha scoffed, dismissive. "I hardly need a minstrel to record my brother's valor. His deeds speak for themselves."
Nott's hands moved with surprising force, her green-tinged aura flaring faintly. "But she knows about Lore! About the ancient things! About primordials! She can write it all down. So no one forgets. Not Steven. Not Grimma."
Asha hesitated. Her gaze drifted to the distant horizon, where the faint, lingering haze of smoke from the grove was still visible. She thought of Grimma's sacrifice, of the terror in Hector's eyes when he spoke of Trogvir, and the unsettling truth that Nott now carried within her. This wasn't just a political incident; it was indeed a saga, one that touched upon ancient powers and forgotten histories. A proper chronicler, one with Errin's unusual knowledge and abilities, might be invaluable. She remembered Errin's words: "You need someone to tell this incredible saga when it's done, don't you? Properly, for the ages?"
Savine, observing the exchange silently, offered Asha a subtle nod, a quiet affirmation of Nott's point.
Asha let out a long, slow breath. "Fine," she conceded, the word almost a growl of reluctant acceptance. "But they are to be quiet. And they are to understand the gravity of our situation. This is not for amusement." She looked at Nott, a flicker of something new in her eyes. "Go. Get them. Quickly."
Nott's face lit up, a brilliant, uncontainable joy replacing her earlier sorrow. She signed a quick, emphatic "Thank you!" to Asha, then bounded off the gangplank, a small blur of eager motion. Vidar, with a weary but fond smile, simply shook his head and followed her.
Nott raced through the quiet, pre-dawn streets, straight to "The Shifting Sands." She burst into the common room where Errin and Troth were already packed and quietly waiting. "We're going!" Nott signed, her hands flying with excitement. "Queen Asha says you can come! To Nan du Tua!"
Errin's eyes, hidden behind her dark glasses, likely widened to impossible size. She played it cool, though, managing a casual shrug. "Oh? Well, that's... unexpected. But not unwelcome, of course. A new audience, a new land, perhaps some fresh tales to spin." But a wide, uncontainable grin broke across her face. This wasn't just about the story, though that was a part of it. This was about Nott. About the tiny, silent wolfkin who had, in such a short time, captured a piece of her adventurous heart. It was a grand new chapter, and she was thrilled to be a part of it. Troth, seeing her excitement, let out a happy, soft bellow of approval.
Petirorin Docks: A Dash for the Ship
The pre-dawn chill still clung to the narrow alleyways around "The Shifting Sands" inn. Nott, her heart light with the newfound ability to truly communicate, bounded from the inn's doorway, a blur of eager motion, with Vidar smiling fondly behind her. Errin, though playing it cool, matched Nott's quick pace, a thrill of anticipation buzzing through her. Troth, with a happy bellow, brought up the rear, his lute swaying. Their excitement was palpable, their purpose clear: to reach the ship waiting at the docks where Queen Asha and Stransa were already preparing for departure.