Late January - Rhy'Din City
I want to be beautiful and lovely, the way worn-out things are. Kissed by time and love and proud of ragged edges and all the stories that come with them. I wish to be loved and fought for and kept through the good and the bad. To not feel like I am alone in this wide world of wonder and regret. To be alone in a city of bustling chaos is a fate never thought, never promised. Streets of pernicious, creeping promise, where the Fates sit back and let you have all you wish if you're only brave enough to reach for it, to dig your fingers in to crevices and flesh. Stake your claim, make your mark, lest you fade away into the dark.
"Dear heart, it's time."
"Five more minutes, Nan."
Please don't wake me, not yet, not yet. It's so cold out there and I am so very warm, wrapped in an embrace of familiar quilts, the last lingering remnants of a flat painted red by innocent blood. Clean though it may have been, there was no return to the ghosts and regrets of summer's last days. Days somehow less complicated for all of their complexity, easy days weighed only by uncertainty instead of a bleak path forward. The crash of sea on shore battered sand in much the same way the grain of time echoed at the bottom of a turned hourglass, ticking with finality. There was no going back. And if there was no going back, then she could sleep just a little longer.
"Little fox, rise, my sleepy head."
"Mmh, I've got a triple at eight... please..."
"Dear heart, I'm sorry. It is Time."
Winter lightning split the sky over a grove in the deep wilds.
Miles away, Delia bolted upright with a shudder.
There was naught but darkness to welcome her back to the land of waking, her grandmother's voice a distant echo that she tried her best to hold on to. But much like the dream it was, it slipped like smoke between her fingers, faster still the harder she tried to hold on to it. Grinding a hand heel against the hollow of her eye, she swept sleep aside and swung her feet over a plush edge until cold toes touched a colder still floor to rise as requested. Thin slices of dual moonlight cut warring courses over polished wood, tracing moonbeam paths for unseen sprites to dance upon like dryads in the river, dripping in ethereal silver and gone before morning chased them away.
A pass by a window draped in gauzy white curled by a crack between pane and pain revealed grey caps rising on a stirred sea, stark black under a starlit sky. Too rough to reflect the pinpricks of light above, left to the void of the deep and its swells. The half-elf passed the dark window without incident or lingering. Soft gold emanating from a single bulb night light in the bathroom called her name, beckoning her closer. She didn't bother turning on the overhead to do her business lest she chase away the last remnants of sleep's embrace. Across the room, her bedside clock read some time shortly after three in the morning, red numbers blaring dire declaration that save for whispered words, she still had hours to go before the alarms would ring to rouse her. Silver lining, perhaps she could go back to sleep for that time.
The swish and swirl of a task concluded died down as she shuffled before the pedestal stink, fingers fumbling for taps to twist and turn til cold and hot made a temperate spill over working suds and callused swaths of flesh. A renewed chill trickled down her spine like a single digit swept down her back, prompting a jerk of her head, drawn on a marionette's cord to pull her eyes toward the mirror.
"Nan?" Confusion bled across her tired features at the sight of the elderly woman standing in the reflection of the bathroom doorway. Wrapped in a white nightgown and a knit shawl, the moonlight framing her seemed to filter right through her in much the same way as the curtains beyond. Iselphenee Thel'andira had always been a picture of beauty and beneath wrinkles that put Pierce the Pug to shame, that beauty rang through plainly even in the dark. Canyon deep crows feet and laugh lines read kindness and a life of brilliant smiles that Delia had counted on in the darkest of days in the wake of losing her parents.
In truth, Delia hadn't even met her grandmother until their passing but from the moment ten-year-old Delia had stepped from the rickety carriage onto the quiet Old Temple street on which her grandmother had once lived, Iselphenee had ensured that the little girl had never felt anything but love.
"It is time." Nan's voice sounded distant, as if it were muted by snow draped landscapes or downy pillows. Her smile was tinged in sadness, softly resigned. But for the first time in years, her grandmother looked whole and hale, no longer confined to a body failing with age. It was then that Delia understood.
"No..." Softly, the whispered plea slipped free as she crossed the distance to where the figure stood.
A reach of hand somehow curled around warmth, young hand and old intertwined. "Alas, my love. We both know..."
"I can't... I can't lose you too..." Delia protested, curling her other hand around her grandmother's. The older woman was smaller but her grasp was strong, comforting.
"You won't lose me for I am always with you. My touch is the wind on your cheek, my voice the whisper of leaves. In the beauty of spring and the silence of fall, I will be with you always. Every step you take, I promise." Iselphenee assured her. Delia leaned down to touch her forehead to her grandmother's. The doctors had told her this time was coming. For years even. But Delia had insisted her grandmother was stubborn and content and, as such, didn't need anything more than comfort in her final days. Besides, Delia finally had the financial means with which to make sure the woman was comfortable and well taken care of by caregivers around the clock. At the rate of which she was spending her substantial savings, she could take care of her grandmother's needs forever at this point.
But there wasn't going to be a forever. Not this time. Delia straightened and looked down upon her smiling grandmother, their hands still clasped between them to seal the woman's promise to her granddaughter.
"Be strong, dear heart. Walk with Khalreshaar and seek the light always. There you will find me, just on the edge of here and there. Will you be strong for me?" Iselphenee looked up at Delia, her gaze stern and sure. Delia could only nod, squeezing hands that were fast chilling beneath her touch. Their time was running out.
"Swear it." Iselphenee demanded.
"I swear it."
The pressure within her grasp faded and so to did the woman standing before her until Delia was alone once more, bathed only in the warring silver-gold moonlight-meets-nightlight. Soon, only the distant patter of sea on shore and the hum of her heart in her ears was all that remained of the exchange. A soft exhale punctuated it, breathing finality into a promise made to an empty room. Scrubbing a palm over her face, she closed her eyes in hopes of committing the last smile exchanged to her memory. Her reverie was broken by the tin ringing whistle rattling from a phone on her bedside table. With a sigh, she left the warmth of the bathroom and sought her phone.
From the glow of the screen, the name Marie read across, declaring the caller as her grandmother's night caretaker. A swipe of a rough finger slid a green button left to right and a moment later the call connected.
"Miss Delia? Marie here..."
"Hi Marie... you're calling to tell me the worst, aren't you?"
"Ah... uh... er... well... unfortunately, Miss. Your grandmother passed away a few moments ago... I'm terribly sorry..."
Yes, I already know. She just visited me on her way to the Great Beyond.
Delia resisted the jarring snark and turned to sit on the edge of her bed. A wispy cloud dragged itself across one of the moons, cutting long shadows through the room. In them, she sought some sign that her grandmother was still with her, as she had said. The curtain fluttered, sea breeze carrying a winter chill on its wings. Delia sighed.
"That's... unfortunate. I, ah... do I need to do anything right now or can I sort things out in the morning?" Her grandmother's end of life plans had been in place for half a decade now, there was very little to sort.
"Yes, Miss. Is there anything I can do for you? Anyone I can call?" Her grandmother was gone, she had nobody left to call.
"No... just Warden Venris. Let him know the Marchioness has passed and I'll speak with him tomorrow..."
Emerald & Ash
Re: Emerald & Ash
Derry down green, the color of my dreams.
The din of the floor, the quiet of the sky, I can't go to the Phoenix. Not today. I scant recall the texts I sent to Tella and Benny and I haven't the heart to send the same to Alik. No, this loss will be my own to bear and bear it I will as the last in the line of Thel'andira.
The phone calls are a blur, condolences and questions alike. Her affairs were in order long before her passing, I had little to do save return to the grove. It was a goodbye I wasn't sure I could say, a word that had choked itself on my tongue, weaseling into flesh like a burr, sharp and ever present, but impossible to remove.
By nightfall, Delia had departed. The March had offered to send for her by carriage but she had declined, electing instead to walk the six blocks to the stable in Battlefield Park where her grandmother's prized mare was boarded. Even Zephyr seemed to know when Delia arrived that all was not well in the line of Thel'andira. The Semphari palfrey chuffed through the brushing Delia gave while the stablehand handled tacking her up. Saddlebags were filled with the necessities and a few extra provisions in the event of delays, but she had little intention in staying longer than necessary. Anything else would have to wait for her return.
The northern gates of the city fast faded behind her, a pace set early and quick sure to make distance as desired. Knees tucked tight to the great body of the dappled grey mare, heads lowered to the wind, the pair rode the coast into the night. The sun set to her left, the moon rose to the right, separated by a gradient sky of indigo to gold, a warring watercolor canvas overhead that fast faded as night won the daily battle and the shifting palette gave way to pinprick stars and fairy floss clouds, stretched wisp thin overhead to give fleeting cover for moon and starlight alike.
Named for her faster than usual stride, Zephyr's pace put Delia far north of the city in a few scant hours and by midnight, Rhydin was an afterthought. They stopped shortly after two for a break, slowing to an amble and then a stop at an opportune overlook. Rather than perch on the ledge, much as she wanted to, she instead directed Zephyr to the cover of trees on the opposing side of the traveling way where she could surround herself on three sides with cover and build a small fire to warm herself beside while her steed took a much deserved break.
The flame before her drew her focus and her ire and it wasn't long before she kicked dirt over the pit to douse the embers in favor of unknotting Zephyr's reins from a nearby tree, climbing back into the saddle, and hitting the road once more. The moon traced its own course overhead, counting out the hours, minutes, seconds that she rode. Night gave way to day and the battle waged once more, with the peek of gold and rose rising on the eastern horizon to banish the dark beyond the amber touched seas to the west. The distant song of the waves on stone far below was washed out by the beating of hooves on the path.
Even this far north, the touch of winter wasn't enough to dampen the hard clay dirt more than just enough to prevent a cloud from kicking up in her wake. It made for a comforting cadence, a steady rhythm to which she could count her progress. Thirty miles each hour save for the times she relented and pulled back on Zephyr's reins. It seemed Zephyr resisted though, intent perhaps on reaching their final destination. The cliffside path soon split in twain, one continuing to wind along the coast while the other veered at an angle into the woods. It was the latter that Delia took, saying goodbye to the blue skies and bluer seas in favor of a wood still waking, muted quiet and soft shades beneath an impossible canopy defiant in the face of winter.
Everwood was named aptly, a forest that lived year round no matter what the petulance of the seasons thought to throw at it. It seemed a living, breathing thing, more so than any wood had right to be, & every time she visited, Delia couldn't help the creeping feeling that she was both within & without, a part of an organism & an intruder upon something sacred. It was here that her course slowed, less familiar, less sure, left to the trot of winding ways through foliage and fauna, though she steered clear of the latter as best as she could. High above, the songs of nesting tempest petrels warbled & waned, both muted & echoing in a strange dichotomy that made the ears itch & the hair on the back of one's neck stand up.
In the saddle, Delia rolled her shoulders, her head on a swivel with the occasional glance back. While the Everwood was safe for most, void of raiders & ruffians alike as it was, she couldn't quite shake the feeling of eyes upon her. It began the moment she & Zephyr had crossed the wood's edge & it lingered for miles with no discernible source as far as she could perceive. Zephyr was unbothered by it, which put Delia at ease & the remainder of their ride passed with relative ease.
Uneventful, boring.
Definitely not how I would describe my life these days. The past year alone…
Her thoughts were broken by the gatehouse ahead, wooden walls hung with ivy and thorn rising and wrapping around the village within.
The March of Andira was an impressive settlement, all things considered, mostly in that the only ones who knew about it, were those who lived there. For some reason, it ended up on no map and those who ventured too far from it for too long, simply forgot about its existence. As such, it had existed in peaceful solitude for several centuries. The pair of guards at the gate stepped out to bar her path, leaving her to slow and stop.
"Your business?" One asked.
"I ride in the name of Marchioness Thel'andira. You are expecting me."
The din of the floor, the quiet of the sky, I can't go to the Phoenix. Not today. I scant recall the texts I sent to Tella and Benny and I haven't the heart to send the same to Alik. No, this loss will be my own to bear and bear it I will as the last in the line of Thel'andira.
The phone calls are a blur, condolences and questions alike. Her affairs were in order long before her passing, I had little to do save return to the grove. It was a goodbye I wasn't sure I could say, a word that had choked itself on my tongue, weaseling into flesh like a burr, sharp and ever present, but impossible to remove.
By nightfall, Delia had departed. The March had offered to send for her by carriage but she had declined, electing instead to walk the six blocks to the stable in Battlefield Park where her grandmother's prized mare was boarded. Even Zephyr seemed to know when Delia arrived that all was not well in the line of Thel'andira. The Semphari palfrey chuffed through the brushing Delia gave while the stablehand handled tacking her up. Saddlebags were filled with the necessities and a few extra provisions in the event of delays, but she had little intention in staying longer than necessary. Anything else would have to wait for her return.
The northern gates of the city fast faded behind her, a pace set early and quick sure to make distance as desired. Knees tucked tight to the great body of the dappled grey mare, heads lowered to the wind, the pair rode the coast into the night. The sun set to her left, the moon rose to the right, separated by a gradient sky of indigo to gold, a warring watercolor canvas overhead that fast faded as night won the daily battle and the shifting palette gave way to pinprick stars and fairy floss clouds, stretched wisp thin overhead to give fleeting cover for moon and starlight alike.
Named for her faster than usual stride, Zephyr's pace put Delia far north of the city in a few scant hours and by midnight, Rhydin was an afterthought. They stopped shortly after two for a break, slowing to an amble and then a stop at an opportune overlook. Rather than perch on the ledge, much as she wanted to, she instead directed Zephyr to the cover of trees on the opposing side of the traveling way where she could surround herself on three sides with cover and build a small fire to warm herself beside while her steed took a much deserved break.
The flame before her drew her focus and her ire and it wasn't long before she kicked dirt over the pit to douse the embers in favor of unknotting Zephyr's reins from a nearby tree, climbing back into the saddle, and hitting the road once more. The moon traced its own course overhead, counting out the hours, minutes, seconds that she rode. Night gave way to day and the battle waged once more, with the peek of gold and rose rising on the eastern horizon to banish the dark beyond the amber touched seas to the west. The distant song of the waves on stone far below was washed out by the beating of hooves on the path.
Even this far north, the touch of winter wasn't enough to dampen the hard clay dirt more than just enough to prevent a cloud from kicking up in her wake. It made for a comforting cadence, a steady rhythm to which she could count her progress. Thirty miles each hour save for the times she relented and pulled back on Zephyr's reins. It seemed Zephyr resisted though, intent perhaps on reaching their final destination. The cliffside path soon split in twain, one continuing to wind along the coast while the other veered at an angle into the woods. It was the latter that Delia took, saying goodbye to the blue skies and bluer seas in favor of a wood still waking, muted quiet and soft shades beneath an impossible canopy defiant in the face of winter.
Everwood was named aptly, a forest that lived year round no matter what the petulance of the seasons thought to throw at it. It seemed a living, breathing thing, more so than any wood had right to be, & every time she visited, Delia couldn't help the creeping feeling that she was both within & without, a part of an organism & an intruder upon something sacred. It was here that her course slowed, less familiar, less sure, left to the trot of winding ways through foliage and fauna, though she steered clear of the latter as best as she could. High above, the songs of nesting tempest petrels warbled & waned, both muted & echoing in a strange dichotomy that made the ears itch & the hair on the back of one's neck stand up.
In the saddle, Delia rolled her shoulders, her head on a swivel with the occasional glance back. While the Everwood was safe for most, void of raiders & ruffians alike as it was, she couldn't quite shake the feeling of eyes upon her. It began the moment she & Zephyr had crossed the wood's edge & it lingered for miles with no discernible source as far as she could perceive. Zephyr was unbothered by it, which put Delia at ease & the remainder of their ride passed with relative ease.
Uneventful, boring.
Definitely not how I would describe my life these days. The past year alone…
Her thoughts were broken by the gatehouse ahead, wooden walls hung with ivy and thorn rising and wrapping around the village within.
The March of Andira was an impressive settlement, all things considered, mostly in that the only ones who knew about it, were those who lived there. For some reason, it ended up on no map and those who ventured too far from it for too long, simply forgot about its existence. As such, it had existed in peaceful solitude for several centuries. The pair of guards at the gate stepped out to bar her path, leaving her to slow and stop.
"Your business?" One asked.
"I ride in the name of Marchioness Thel'andira. You are expecting me."
Re: Emerald & Ash
And expect her, they did. A shroud of solemnity had been draped over the town, evident by the banners of black flown in the square and from the March's manse. The Marchioness had been nearly universally loved, even in absentia. Delia dismounted just before the gate, leading Zephyr by the reins as they were both escorted to a handsome building just off the main square. Easy instructions for food and water for the steed saw her handing off to a wheat haired stableboy who hurried off with Zephyr in tow to a nearby lodging so that Delia could pass through oaken double doors to cool, dim interior of the three story inn.
Akin to the Red Dragon or really any of the many inns and taverns of the realm, the Singing Narcissus served as a social hub for the town of Andira. Its entrance was framed by willows, barren in the winter though they may have been, leaving spindly branches to reach for patrons and passersby alike without benefit of willow-wisps to soften the scrape. Delia reached up to drag her hand beneath a low hanging branch, letting it rake across her palm as they approached the front entrance. A tall elven man stood to one side of the doorway, smoking from a curved meerschaum pipe. He watched her with inquisitive amber eyes, a look which Delia held for all of three heartbeats before offering the man a singular nod and passing by through a held door.
It must have been the lunch hour for all the hustle and bustle within. A dozen and a half tables were mostly full with sparing stools to show for it. The bar was half full, manned (or womaned) by a tired looking human woman in her presumptive late thirties. She wore a look that Delia knew well, the general fatigue of life in the service industry, run ragged and held together by nothing more than spite and chewing gum. Sympathy drew Delia's lips into a small smile, caught easily by the woman who flagged her and her escorts over to an open space at the counter.
"Dakar, Rizz, Miss, welcome in. What brings ya 'round these parts so early in the day?" The woman behind the bar asked with a tired smile, flopping a towel over the crook of her arm so that she could dip into a lean with her elbow against the bartop.
Dakar Stonebreaker and Rizz Aerel had been designated as Delia's escorts at least on the first leg of her journey through Andira. The former was a solid man befitting of his name, likely had a fair bit of dwarf in him by build alone even if his height said otherwise. Round like a barrel and likely as strong, he had a grizzled jawline speckled by peppered facial hair worn in a beard knotted below his chin with a beaded wrap. He was an inch shorter than Delia but just on the short walk over, she had realized he had a much larger than life personality with a laugh to match.
His counterpart, Rizz, was a slender half-elf with beautifully androgynous features, a swanlike neck, and wide crystalline blue eyes that made him look almost cherubic. They served the March by welcoming visiting dignitaries and ensuring they had all they needed during their time in Andira.
Dignitary... right.
"'Lo, Arla. Showin' our visitor 'round afore the Wardens come ta collect 'er." Dakar explained.
"Visitor, aye? From where do ya hail, lass?" The newly deigned Arla asked.
"Rhy'Din City t' the south, ma'am. Though m' father's from Andira originally." Delia answered with a dip of her chin. Arla looked keen to ask more but Dakar beat her to the punch.
"Mind grabbin' a bit of ale an' mayhaps whatever soup y've got on back there?"
"Aye, aye, sure 'nough." Arla flapped a hand at the shorter of the two men and turned to go fulfill his request.
"Three grogs, three bowls."
"Actually," Delia piped up, "I've heard the mead is second t' none. Might I do that instead?"
Arla perked up and soon a pleased smile bloomed on her lips. "Certainly, love. Comin' right up."
The soup failed to disappoint and the mead lived up to its reputation. Easy conversation flowed betwixt Delia, her escorts, and the kind eyed tender behind the bar. Arla took a fast shine to Delia, keeping her glass topped off with sweet mead until the fatigue in the half-elf had faded in favor of a rosy tint to her cheeks and a warm buzz thrumming in her head and her gut, like stirring bumblebees just waking for spring's first blooms.
"And then, and then I asked 'em, how many Rogues does it take to light a candle? None, thieves’ cant!" Dakar slapped a hand to his thigh as he hit the punchline of a very roundabout recounting of his adventures. While he had many a tale to tell, he was a horrendous storyteller, and by the time he finally reached the end, the surrounding gathering could only let out a groan. Dakar grinned at them just the same. "Get it? *Thieves' cant.... rogues are... thieves speak... ya know what, ferget it."
Before Delia could tell him it was a nice story, the double doors of the Singing Narcissus flew open with just enough flare to tell her that it was for show, not by accident. She tipped her head to one side, as many in the bar did, to look to the doors and the man entering soon after.
Statuesque, towering even, the broad elven man nudged the doors shut in his wake and pushed his cloak hood back to reveal a mane of pure white, pinned partially back but mostly left to spill about his shoulders amidst beaded braids and the occasional feather woven into his locks. A black ribbon had been threaded through a thick braid starting behind one of his ears, the same shade and material of the banners adorning much of the city. Striking eyes, blue grey and preternaturally bright, skimmed the patrons and came to a stop upon the bar, the escorts, and their charge. It was there he went soon after, coming to a stop before the three on the patron's side.
And it was there he took a knee before Delia, head bowed as he spoke. "Lady Andira, fair. You have returned."
Delia, midsip of mead, choke-coughed as he knelt before her, now acutely aware of every set of eyes in the tavern coming to watch them.
"Get up." She muttered through gritted teeth, nudging him with her foot. Those nearest the trio at the bar less than subtly scooted away and further down the counter. Why, Delia didn't know. Perhaps it was the intricate scars that marred the elf's visible flesh, his hands, forearms, face, and even the exposed V of his chest all bore their fair share of marks to prove the man's mettle.
He didn't rise, not at first, prompting Delia to kick him a little harder, the toe of her riding boot pressing hard into the knee not planted against the aged boards of the floor.
"Warden... get up." She insisted quietly.
"It warms the heart to behold your face after all this time though the sorrow is mine that it might be under such dour circumstances." He said, his head still bowed.
Finally Delia slid off her bar stool, feet planting immediately before him so that she could bend down to slip hands beneath his arms to attempt hauling him up. He was a lot heavier than she remembered, her struggle prompting a stifled snicker from Dakar, who was promptly elbowed in the ribs by Rizz.
Eventually the broad shouldered elf humored her and rose with the next tug, putting him immensely close to her as he cornered her between himself and the bar.
Heavier and taller.
He towered over her by the better part of a foot, try as she might to square up against his imposing stature. But let's be real, there was very little imposing about Delia Thel'andira and thus, it mostly just looked awkward until she at last let her shoulders sag as she sank back onto the lip of her bar stool with a sigh, not quite sitting but not quite standing either.
"Ah, uh, Warden, getcha a drink?" Arla asked, breaking the awkward silence.
"Yes, milady, the mead." He said without looking at her. Arla scooted off to fill another tankard. Beside Delia, Rizz cleared his throat.
"Warden Venris, I didn't expect they would send you." Rizz admitted aloud, breathing words into the thoughts of many in the bar, Delia included. "Surely such a retrieval is--"
The Warden held up a hand to silence the half-elf. "Before you attempt to flatter me with your platitudes, don't. I was specifically requested and thus, I am here."
"Ah, then glad we are that it might be you of all Wardens. Lady Thel'Andira, this is,--"
It was Delia's turn to interrupt poor Rizz. "Graeme Venris, Warden of the Grove, First Knight of the March. And I'm sure a few other titles you've amassed since the last time I saw you."
This cracked a smile across the Warden's mouth, making a light scar in his upper lip more noticeable in the tavern's dowdy light. Despite the scarring, he was by no means an ugly man. In fact, quite the contrary. He could have filled the halls of any elite social event and fit in with ease, with or without the scars. His attire, his stature, and his general countenance, however, made for quite the imposing figure and Delia supposed that she could understand why so many stared and moved away as he approached.
"So you're already acquainted, ah, good." Rizz hummed. Dakar rapped his knuckles to the bar top to signal for another round of drinks and Arla got right to it shortly after delivering Graeme's mead.
"You could say that." Delia confirmed with a small smile, though heartened she may have been to see the Warden again, she couldn't help the limned sadness tugging at the edge of her lips. Graeme picked up on this with ease and slid onto the stool beside her.
"We shant linger overlong but first we drink to the Marchioness, long had she reigned." Graeme raised his glass and the others followed suit, including random patrons at other tables.
"To the Marchioness." The cheer went up and then, collectively, they drank their grief.
Akin to the Red Dragon or really any of the many inns and taverns of the realm, the Singing Narcissus served as a social hub for the town of Andira. Its entrance was framed by willows, barren in the winter though they may have been, leaving spindly branches to reach for patrons and passersby alike without benefit of willow-wisps to soften the scrape. Delia reached up to drag her hand beneath a low hanging branch, letting it rake across her palm as they approached the front entrance. A tall elven man stood to one side of the doorway, smoking from a curved meerschaum pipe. He watched her with inquisitive amber eyes, a look which Delia held for all of three heartbeats before offering the man a singular nod and passing by through a held door.
It must have been the lunch hour for all the hustle and bustle within. A dozen and a half tables were mostly full with sparing stools to show for it. The bar was half full, manned (or womaned) by a tired looking human woman in her presumptive late thirties. She wore a look that Delia knew well, the general fatigue of life in the service industry, run ragged and held together by nothing more than spite and chewing gum. Sympathy drew Delia's lips into a small smile, caught easily by the woman who flagged her and her escorts over to an open space at the counter.
"Dakar, Rizz, Miss, welcome in. What brings ya 'round these parts so early in the day?" The woman behind the bar asked with a tired smile, flopping a towel over the crook of her arm so that she could dip into a lean with her elbow against the bartop.
Dakar Stonebreaker and Rizz Aerel had been designated as Delia's escorts at least on the first leg of her journey through Andira. The former was a solid man befitting of his name, likely had a fair bit of dwarf in him by build alone even if his height said otherwise. Round like a barrel and likely as strong, he had a grizzled jawline speckled by peppered facial hair worn in a beard knotted below his chin with a beaded wrap. He was an inch shorter than Delia but just on the short walk over, she had realized he had a much larger than life personality with a laugh to match.
His counterpart, Rizz, was a slender half-elf with beautifully androgynous features, a swanlike neck, and wide crystalline blue eyes that made him look almost cherubic. They served the March by welcoming visiting dignitaries and ensuring they had all they needed during their time in Andira.
Dignitary... right.
"'Lo, Arla. Showin' our visitor 'round afore the Wardens come ta collect 'er." Dakar explained.
"Visitor, aye? From where do ya hail, lass?" The newly deigned Arla asked.
"Rhy'Din City t' the south, ma'am. Though m' father's from Andira originally." Delia answered with a dip of her chin. Arla looked keen to ask more but Dakar beat her to the punch.
"Mind grabbin' a bit of ale an' mayhaps whatever soup y've got on back there?"
"Aye, aye, sure 'nough." Arla flapped a hand at the shorter of the two men and turned to go fulfill his request.
"Three grogs, three bowls."
"Actually," Delia piped up, "I've heard the mead is second t' none. Might I do that instead?"
Arla perked up and soon a pleased smile bloomed on her lips. "Certainly, love. Comin' right up."
The soup failed to disappoint and the mead lived up to its reputation. Easy conversation flowed betwixt Delia, her escorts, and the kind eyed tender behind the bar. Arla took a fast shine to Delia, keeping her glass topped off with sweet mead until the fatigue in the half-elf had faded in favor of a rosy tint to her cheeks and a warm buzz thrumming in her head and her gut, like stirring bumblebees just waking for spring's first blooms.
"And then, and then I asked 'em, how many Rogues does it take to light a candle? None, thieves’ cant!" Dakar slapped a hand to his thigh as he hit the punchline of a very roundabout recounting of his adventures. While he had many a tale to tell, he was a horrendous storyteller, and by the time he finally reached the end, the surrounding gathering could only let out a groan. Dakar grinned at them just the same. "Get it? *Thieves' cant.... rogues are... thieves speak... ya know what, ferget it."
Before Delia could tell him it was a nice story, the double doors of the Singing Narcissus flew open with just enough flare to tell her that it was for show, not by accident. She tipped her head to one side, as many in the bar did, to look to the doors and the man entering soon after.
Statuesque, towering even, the broad elven man nudged the doors shut in his wake and pushed his cloak hood back to reveal a mane of pure white, pinned partially back but mostly left to spill about his shoulders amidst beaded braids and the occasional feather woven into his locks. A black ribbon had been threaded through a thick braid starting behind one of his ears, the same shade and material of the banners adorning much of the city. Striking eyes, blue grey and preternaturally bright, skimmed the patrons and came to a stop upon the bar, the escorts, and their charge. It was there he went soon after, coming to a stop before the three on the patron's side.
And it was there he took a knee before Delia, head bowed as he spoke. "Lady Andira, fair. You have returned."
Delia, midsip of mead, choke-coughed as he knelt before her, now acutely aware of every set of eyes in the tavern coming to watch them.
"Get up." She muttered through gritted teeth, nudging him with her foot. Those nearest the trio at the bar less than subtly scooted away and further down the counter. Why, Delia didn't know. Perhaps it was the intricate scars that marred the elf's visible flesh, his hands, forearms, face, and even the exposed V of his chest all bore their fair share of marks to prove the man's mettle.
He didn't rise, not at first, prompting Delia to kick him a little harder, the toe of her riding boot pressing hard into the knee not planted against the aged boards of the floor.
"Warden... get up." She insisted quietly.
"It warms the heart to behold your face after all this time though the sorrow is mine that it might be under such dour circumstances." He said, his head still bowed.
Finally Delia slid off her bar stool, feet planting immediately before him so that she could bend down to slip hands beneath his arms to attempt hauling him up. He was a lot heavier than she remembered, her struggle prompting a stifled snicker from Dakar, who was promptly elbowed in the ribs by Rizz.
Eventually the broad shouldered elf humored her and rose with the next tug, putting him immensely close to her as he cornered her between himself and the bar.
Heavier and taller.
He towered over her by the better part of a foot, try as she might to square up against his imposing stature. But let's be real, there was very little imposing about Delia Thel'andira and thus, it mostly just looked awkward until she at last let her shoulders sag as she sank back onto the lip of her bar stool with a sigh, not quite sitting but not quite standing either.
"Ah, uh, Warden, getcha a drink?" Arla asked, breaking the awkward silence.
"Yes, milady, the mead." He said without looking at her. Arla scooted off to fill another tankard. Beside Delia, Rizz cleared his throat.
"Warden Venris, I didn't expect they would send you." Rizz admitted aloud, breathing words into the thoughts of many in the bar, Delia included. "Surely such a retrieval is--"
The Warden held up a hand to silence the half-elf. "Before you attempt to flatter me with your platitudes, don't. I was specifically requested and thus, I am here."
"Ah, then glad we are that it might be you of all Wardens. Lady Thel'Andira, this is,--"
It was Delia's turn to interrupt poor Rizz. "Graeme Venris, Warden of the Grove, First Knight of the March. And I'm sure a few other titles you've amassed since the last time I saw you."
This cracked a smile across the Warden's mouth, making a light scar in his upper lip more noticeable in the tavern's dowdy light. Despite the scarring, he was by no means an ugly man. In fact, quite the contrary. He could have filled the halls of any elite social event and fit in with ease, with or without the scars. His attire, his stature, and his general countenance, however, made for quite the imposing figure and Delia supposed that she could understand why so many stared and moved away as he approached.
"So you're already acquainted, ah, good." Rizz hummed. Dakar rapped his knuckles to the bar top to signal for another round of drinks and Arla got right to it shortly after delivering Graeme's mead.
"You could say that." Delia confirmed with a small smile, though heartened she may have been to see the Warden again, she couldn't help the limned sadness tugging at the edge of her lips. Graeme picked up on this with ease and slid onto the stool beside her.
"We shant linger overlong but first we drink to the Marchioness, long had she reigned." Graeme raised his glass and the others followed suit, including random patrons at other tables.
"To the Marchioness." The cheer went up and then, collectively, they drank their grief.
Re: Emerald & Ash
Graeme was firm at one drink, much to Delia and Dakar's protests. Not even the bemoaning of a long overnight ride to reach Andira could sway him. His counter; they had offered to send for her, to give her a coach in which to ride and relax. The rugged ride there was wholly her choice and thus he felt it weighed nonce against his desire for progress and to remove the young half-elf from the prying eyes of those at the bar.
Perhaps it was the announcement of her name that had drawn curious stares or perhaps it was the tenderness with which Graeme treated the foreigner, the way his sword-worn hand touched lightly to the small of her back to guide her out of the tavern or the way he had brushed a strand of red from her eyes before they departed. The buzz of the gossip mill would put the grove's hives to shame.
With Dakar and Rizz left to the hum of the tavern, Delia wrapped her arms around herself as she strode within Graeme's shadow down the main thoroughfare. Theirs was a circuitous course, one that would lead them down the length of the town-square and around the market to reach their mark; a stately two-story building set at the bottom of a hill beside the tall vine-laden gate that led up to the March's manse on the hill.
The headquarters of the House of Wardens served twofold purpose; both barrack and office as it was. It was there the Wardens both lived and conducted their business, all the while at the ready to protect the March's people at a horn blow's notice. Graeme held the front door open for her, allowing her to duck inside a moment before him. Hardly more than a converted manor, they set up in a dining room turned meeting room where a stack of parchment had been set out ahead of time, presumably by the bespectacled old man sitting at the table's head. He rose as they entered and shuffled over to hug Delia.
"The prodigal daughter returns at last."
Perhaps it was the announcement of her name that had drawn curious stares or perhaps it was the tenderness with which Graeme treated the foreigner, the way his sword-worn hand touched lightly to the small of her back to guide her out of the tavern or the way he had brushed a strand of red from her eyes before they departed. The buzz of the gossip mill would put the grove's hives to shame.
With Dakar and Rizz left to the hum of the tavern, Delia wrapped her arms around herself as she strode within Graeme's shadow down the main thoroughfare. Theirs was a circuitous course, one that would lead them down the length of the town-square and around the market to reach their mark; a stately two-story building set at the bottom of a hill beside the tall vine-laden gate that led up to the March's manse on the hill.
The headquarters of the House of Wardens served twofold purpose; both barrack and office as it was. It was there the Wardens both lived and conducted their business, all the while at the ready to protect the March's people at a horn blow's notice. Graeme held the front door open for her, allowing her to duck inside a moment before him. Hardly more than a converted manor, they set up in a dining room turned meeting room where a stack of parchment had been set out ahead of time, presumably by the bespectacled old man sitting at the table's head. He rose as they entered and shuffled over to hug Delia.
"The prodigal daughter returns at last."
Re: Emerald & Ash
"And that brings us to the matter of your grandmother's holdings." Mythanar Errel rambled through his To Do list of things he had to cover with Delia. To his credit, it wasn't his fault that he had a terribly monotone voice and that after such a long ride, Delia wanted nothing more than to sleep for ten hours before trying to settle her grandmother's estate. Though she had been to the March many a time as a child, she hadn't been back since first coming to live with her grandmother after her parents' passing.
At such a young age, she didn't quite grasp just what her grandmother's place was here, a fact made worse by her grandmother's withdrawal from the March for the sake of raising Delia in the city in which she had been born.
It's what your parents would have wanted.
"They were held in trust in her absence, to be accessed only as needed to support the March or her care. Though... it appears it was never accessed for the latter." He looked over the top wire of his spectacles at the dozing half-elf at the opposite end of the table. Her tea had gone cold and a small, ornate porcelain plate was dusted with the crumb remnants of the scones and cookies that had got her through this much of the discussion. She cupped a hand over her mouth to catch the answering yawn, squashing it behind a shake of her head as she pushed herself upright in her seat.
"Aye, I wasn't aware that there were resources available... so I handled it m'self." She told the men in the room. Aside from Mythanar, Graeme sat in a chair against the wall, his arms folded over his chest and his chin lowered. If it weren't for the tick of his gaze between them, Delia would have thought he was asleep. A fourth man, round and jolly, jotted notes as she spoke, recording the continuous flow of the conversation at hand.
"Handled it yourself?" Mythanar asked, his silvered brows lifting in a way that made them warble like stretching caterpillars. "How did you manage that?"
"...By working?" Delia offered, confused.
"Surely her end of life care was no small bill." He frowned, leaning back in his chair to fix her with a scrutinizing examination.
"T'wasn't. At one point, I was juggling three or four different jobs... til a fortuitous opportunity fell inta my lap. Allowed me to work a single job, pay for comfortable, private care, and sock away a nest egg while I was at it." She explained, dragging her finger through the crumbs on her plate. Maybe when all this was done, she could convince Graeme to help her find something heartier than the soup that the Singing Narcissus had offered. Hopefully Zephyr was eating better than her rider, Delia hoped with no small amount of envy.
"So what's it you do in the big city to occupy your time? To pay the bills, so to speak." Mythanar asked. The round notetaker scribbled furiously. Delia was vaguely reminded of therapy or court. Both interrogations in their own right. She raked her teeth across the pulp of her lower lip and glanced over at Graeme briefly. His chin was still lowered but she could feel the weight of his stormladen gaze.
"I worked in the service industry... either as a hostess or a server..." She began, lifting her chin to keep from showing any hint of shame at the admission. "And now I am a one-third owner of a well established and well performing pub near the city harbor. I handle a lot of the day to day operations while my co-owners manage the other aspects of the business. It's profitable. Consistent. Comfortable."
"And do you feel fulfilled by it?" Mythanar continued his questioning.
This, however, was an unexpected inquiry and prompted a long pause on Delia's part.
Long had her motivations for work been the fast piling bills related to her grandmother's care and comfort. The doctor's visits, the in-home nurses, the respite care for the in-home nurses, the labs, the medications, the alternate therapies that kept the woman alive far longer than was likely ethical.
The condo in Seaside that Delia had bought with the excessive pay that Alik had directed her way before Dunham had taken over and axed her salary. The apartment that she had continued paying on despite moving out in the wake of Rafa's not-so-surprise visit in which they had repainted it with the blood of an innocent mother.
It had all added up, making her work at the Phoenix a necessity for survival in a city of glass and apathy.
"That's an odd question to ask when trying to settle my gran's estate." She said finally, juking the question less than deftly. In his seat, Graeme straightened almost imperceptibly. The note taker paused. Mythanar perked a brow.
"No offense intended, my lady. It has been some time since you last were here and with your grandmother's passing... well... we simply have due diligence to the March." He said without hesitation. To his credit, Delia thought, he had been the first aside from Graeme to speak directly in such a way.
You are an Outsider. Your mother was an Outsider. You cannot be trusted.
"And you wish to ensure that if I am to inherit her estate that I am worthy." Delia straightened just enough to lean forward in her chair, setting both elbows to the table top.
"Of course she is worthy, she is of the House Andira..." Graeme spoke finally. He hadn't said but two words since stepping into the House of Wardens. A glance his way spelled silent gratitude.
"O-of course." Mythanar agreed, rattled by Graeme's interjection. "I just wish to understand how the March will fit into your existing life... unless you plan to relocate?"
"Who has been running things in her absence?" Delia said, dipping her head to massage the heel of her hand into the corner of her eye. "I could potentially split my time between here and there... I just don't know what precisely you are expecting from me either way. Maybe if you can lay that out, I can give you a better answer."
This seemed to brighten Mythanar's countenance and prompted Graeme to ease back in his seat and silence once more.
"Ah, yes. The questions that matter. Well, you would have been but a girl, but long ago, we implemented a two chamber overseeing governing body. The first is the House of the Grove, a five seat council composed of representatives from the House of Andira, the Wardens, the Temple, the Grove, and the House of Guilds." He began, ticking each one off on his fingers. Delia recognized all but the last. "The second is the aforementioned House of Guilds. It is composed of representatives from each of the city guilds, alongside two additional seats to represent the citizens at large. The House of Andira voted from the city for many years, but has abstained from voting since your grandmother's retirement some time ago."
Delia was grateful for the note-taker. It was a lot to remember.
"I suppose..." Delia began, choosing her words slowly but surely. "That makes me the House of Andira's vote at this point?"
"Indeed. As the remaining heir to the line of Andira, you are... effectively the entirety of the House at this point." Mythanar's mouth tightened into a grim line.
Modern though the era may have been, the March was steeped in traditions long established and seldom updated. While a female heir was no trouble in most cases and her grandmother had reigned as a female Marchioness of their line, it spelled potential doom that she was both unwed and without heirs of her own. Acute awareness of her teeth against the interior of her cheek was roused with the pinprick break in flesh and the taste of blood on her tongue.
"Should the... House... not participate... what would happen to the March?" She asked carefully, tonguing the new break in her cheek's flesh.
Mythanar exchanged a brief, unreadable glance with the scribe at the end of the table. "Rules of succession account for the end of the ancestral line but not for willing withdrawal from the March's keepership. I imagine it would be put to the Chambers... but I would suppose we would lean on the Grove to divine a new leader as we would should the House of Andira ever not have an heir. Barring an extremely unsuitable divination, we would codify and coronet them accordingly."
An out.
This didn't have to be her life if she didn't want it to be. Beholden to a place she had never lived and only visited less and less as she got older.
A place she may have lived, had her father stepped into the shoes of Marquess. A place her grandmother would have continued to live in and reign over had it not been for his passing and her gran's decision to continue raising Delia in the city the child called home rather than the village full of strangers that was the March of Andira. All in hopes of avoiding interrupting the girl's life more than necessary after the death of her parents.
They had sacrificed so much for her, for her comfort, for her security, for her routine and stability.
To choose the easy path is to dishonor their sacrifice.
Delia's mouth was painfully dry. She reached for a nearby mug, and drew the tea to her lips with a wish it had been something harder.
A pint at the Phoenix sounded really good about now.
So a choice to be made, the Phoenix or the March.
Could she handle both or would it spell ruination for one, either, or both?
At such a young age, she didn't quite grasp just what her grandmother's place was here, a fact made worse by her grandmother's withdrawal from the March for the sake of raising Delia in the city in which she had been born.
It's what your parents would have wanted.
"They were held in trust in her absence, to be accessed only as needed to support the March or her care. Though... it appears it was never accessed for the latter." He looked over the top wire of his spectacles at the dozing half-elf at the opposite end of the table. Her tea had gone cold and a small, ornate porcelain plate was dusted with the crumb remnants of the scones and cookies that had got her through this much of the discussion. She cupped a hand over her mouth to catch the answering yawn, squashing it behind a shake of her head as she pushed herself upright in her seat.
"Aye, I wasn't aware that there were resources available... so I handled it m'self." She told the men in the room. Aside from Mythanar, Graeme sat in a chair against the wall, his arms folded over his chest and his chin lowered. If it weren't for the tick of his gaze between them, Delia would have thought he was asleep. A fourth man, round and jolly, jotted notes as she spoke, recording the continuous flow of the conversation at hand.
"Handled it yourself?" Mythanar asked, his silvered brows lifting in a way that made them warble like stretching caterpillars. "How did you manage that?"
"...By working?" Delia offered, confused.
"Surely her end of life care was no small bill." He frowned, leaning back in his chair to fix her with a scrutinizing examination.
"T'wasn't. At one point, I was juggling three or four different jobs... til a fortuitous opportunity fell inta my lap. Allowed me to work a single job, pay for comfortable, private care, and sock away a nest egg while I was at it." She explained, dragging her finger through the crumbs on her plate. Maybe when all this was done, she could convince Graeme to help her find something heartier than the soup that the Singing Narcissus had offered. Hopefully Zephyr was eating better than her rider, Delia hoped with no small amount of envy.
"So what's it you do in the big city to occupy your time? To pay the bills, so to speak." Mythanar asked. The round notetaker scribbled furiously. Delia was vaguely reminded of therapy or court. Both interrogations in their own right. She raked her teeth across the pulp of her lower lip and glanced over at Graeme briefly. His chin was still lowered but she could feel the weight of his stormladen gaze.
"I worked in the service industry... either as a hostess or a server..." She began, lifting her chin to keep from showing any hint of shame at the admission. "And now I am a one-third owner of a well established and well performing pub near the city harbor. I handle a lot of the day to day operations while my co-owners manage the other aspects of the business. It's profitable. Consistent. Comfortable."
"And do you feel fulfilled by it?" Mythanar continued his questioning.
This, however, was an unexpected inquiry and prompted a long pause on Delia's part.
Long had her motivations for work been the fast piling bills related to her grandmother's care and comfort. The doctor's visits, the in-home nurses, the respite care for the in-home nurses, the labs, the medications, the alternate therapies that kept the woman alive far longer than was likely ethical.
The condo in Seaside that Delia had bought with the excessive pay that Alik had directed her way before Dunham had taken over and axed her salary. The apartment that she had continued paying on despite moving out in the wake of Rafa's not-so-surprise visit in which they had repainted it with the blood of an innocent mother.
It had all added up, making her work at the Phoenix a necessity for survival in a city of glass and apathy.
"That's an odd question to ask when trying to settle my gran's estate." She said finally, juking the question less than deftly. In his seat, Graeme straightened almost imperceptibly. The note taker paused. Mythanar perked a brow.
"No offense intended, my lady. It has been some time since you last were here and with your grandmother's passing... well... we simply have due diligence to the March." He said without hesitation. To his credit, Delia thought, he had been the first aside from Graeme to speak directly in such a way.
You are an Outsider. Your mother was an Outsider. You cannot be trusted.
"And you wish to ensure that if I am to inherit her estate that I am worthy." Delia straightened just enough to lean forward in her chair, setting both elbows to the table top.
"Of course she is worthy, she is of the House Andira..." Graeme spoke finally. He hadn't said but two words since stepping into the House of Wardens. A glance his way spelled silent gratitude.
"O-of course." Mythanar agreed, rattled by Graeme's interjection. "I just wish to understand how the March will fit into your existing life... unless you plan to relocate?"
"Who has been running things in her absence?" Delia said, dipping her head to massage the heel of her hand into the corner of her eye. "I could potentially split my time between here and there... I just don't know what precisely you are expecting from me either way. Maybe if you can lay that out, I can give you a better answer."
This seemed to brighten Mythanar's countenance and prompted Graeme to ease back in his seat and silence once more.
"Ah, yes. The questions that matter. Well, you would have been but a girl, but long ago, we implemented a two chamber overseeing governing body. The first is the House of the Grove, a five seat council composed of representatives from the House of Andira, the Wardens, the Temple, the Grove, and the House of Guilds." He began, ticking each one off on his fingers. Delia recognized all but the last. "The second is the aforementioned House of Guilds. It is composed of representatives from each of the city guilds, alongside two additional seats to represent the citizens at large. The House of Andira voted from the city for many years, but has abstained from voting since your grandmother's retirement some time ago."
Delia was grateful for the note-taker. It was a lot to remember.
"I suppose..." Delia began, choosing her words slowly but surely. "That makes me the House of Andira's vote at this point?"
"Indeed. As the remaining heir to the line of Andira, you are... effectively the entirety of the House at this point." Mythanar's mouth tightened into a grim line.
Modern though the era may have been, the March was steeped in traditions long established and seldom updated. While a female heir was no trouble in most cases and her grandmother had reigned as a female Marchioness of their line, it spelled potential doom that she was both unwed and without heirs of her own. Acute awareness of her teeth against the interior of her cheek was roused with the pinprick break in flesh and the taste of blood on her tongue.
"Should the... House... not participate... what would happen to the March?" She asked carefully, tonguing the new break in her cheek's flesh.
Mythanar exchanged a brief, unreadable glance with the scribe at the end of the table. "Rules of succession account for the end of the ancestral line but not for willing withdrawal from the March's keepership. I imagine it would be put to the Chambers... but I would suppose we would lean on the Grove to divine a new leader as we would should the House of Andira ever not have an heir. Barring an extremely unsuitable divination, we would codify and coronet them accordingly."
An out.
This didn't have to be her life if she didn't want it to be. Beholden to a place she had never lived and only visited less and less as she got older.
A place she may have lived, had her father stepped into the shoes of Marquess. A place her grandmother would have continued to live in and reign over had it not been for his passing and her gran's decision to continue raising Delia in the city the child called home rather than the village full of strangers that was the March of Andira. All in hopes of avoiding interrupting the girl's life more than necessary after the death of her parents.
They had sacrificed so much for her, for her comfort, for her security, for her routine and stability.
To choose the easy path is to dishonor their sacrifice.
Delia's mouth was painfully dry. She reached for a nearby mug, and drew the tea to her lips with a wish it had been something harder.
A pint at the Phoenix sounded really good about now.
So a choice to be made, the Phoenix or the March.
Could she handle both or would it spell ruination for one, either, or both?
Re: Emerald & Ash
"How long do I have to decide?" Her next follow-up came with a pass of her tongue over her bottom lip as if it might stymie the dryness in her mouth. The tea couldn't quench it, hell, she wasn't sure the hardest ale could have either. But at a minimum, she was telling Mythanar that she was at least considering it with all the due process she could muster.
"I suppose... before you go. There is some leeway provided for the Marchioness's funerary arrangements with the Grove... the public mourning period has already begun." He lifted a hand to indicate a tendril of black ribbon that had been woven into his hair in much the same way Graeme wore himself. "Do you think you can come to a decision by the time you depart?"
"Definitely." Without hesitation. If only because should she not have an answer, she would simply wait longer in Andira until she reached a decision.
Easy enough, right?
"Very good. Then I suppose that concludes our business for the day. I'm sure you're exhausted. Tomorrow, I have you set to confer with the Druids of the Grove to finalize ceremonial plans. After that... it's up to you what to do. Just the same, we will be allocating Warden Venris to your detail both to ensure your protection but also to provide you with any information you may need to make your time here in Andira as comfortable as possible."
In the moments that Mythanar spoke, both Delia and Graeme looked to the other, their eyes locking for the double hammerfall of Delia's heart before she broke it intentionally, looking back to Mythanar and his scribe.
"For what it's worth... all of the paperwork and formalities aside... I truly am terribly sorry for your loss. We all are..." Mythanar said after a moment, prompting the weight of Delia's uncomfortable gaze. After all, they had known her far longer than Delia had and yet in her last days, it was Delia who had cared for the Marchioness to the end.
"In the history of the March, I'm not sure there has ever been a more beloved steward than she." He continued.
So, where were they in her end days? Why hadn't they checked up on her more... why had they let her languish in the poverty of Dockside, the squalor of the single bedroom apartment they had shared because it was all Delia could afford after they had been tossed from the stately brownstone in Old Temple for non-payment of the lease. A noble in a most ignoble position.
Delia said none of it, even if the words burned on the back of her tongue, pressed to a stop against the ridges of the back of her teeth. She let them hang themselves from the sinewy rafters of the roof of her mouth, strangling the life from their vitriol before it could ever live on her lips. Swallowing the corpses of words unspoken, she curved the motion into a tight smile that failed to reach her eyes. "I don't think there's a soul that could contest that."
That much was true.
"I won't keep you longer than necessary then. We've made a room up for you at the manse. Anything you may need can be seen to by the staff there. They are available from an hour before sunrise until three hours after sunset. And we are but down the hill should you need anything beyond that." Mythanar was to his feet by that point, sweeping a deep bow that only furthered Delia's discomfort. She couldn't remember the last time a man had bowed to her prior to the last twelve hours.
That time when one of the Phoenix's patrons puked on her shoes. That's right.
Ensuring the recollection didn't reflect in her expression, she gave Mythanar and his scribe a shorter and far more shallow bow once she too was on her feet. Graeme rose but bowed to no one, instead moving for the door to open it for the remaining three.
By the time they escaped, the sun had set and the streets had cleared, leaving Graeme and Delia to trek to the house without an audience.
"I suppose... before you go. There is some leeway provided for the Marchioness's funerary arrangements with the Grove... the public mourning period has already begun." He lifted a hand to indicate a tendril of black ribbon that had been woven into his hair in much the same way Graeme wore himself. "Do you think you can come to a decision by the time you depart?"
"Definitely." Without hesitation. If only because should she not have an answer, she would simply wait longer in Andira until she reached a decision.
Easy enough, right?
"Very good. Then I suppose that concludes our business for the day. I'm sure you're exhausted. Tomorrow, I have you set to confer with the Druids of the Grove to finalize ceremonial plans. After that... it's up to you what to do. Just the same, we will be allocating Warden Venris to your detail both to ensure your protection but also to provide you with any information you may need to make your time here in Andira as comfortable as possible."
In the moments that Mythanar spoke, both Delia and Graeme looked to the other, their eyes locking for the double hammerfall of Delia's heart before she broke it intentionally, looking back to Mythanar and his scribe.
"For what it's worth... all of the paperwork and formalities aside... I truly am terribly sorry for your loss. We all are..." Mythanar said after a moment, prompting the weight of Delia's uncomfortable gaze. After all, they had known her far longer than Delia had and yet in her last days, it was Delia who had cared for the Marchioness to the end.
"In the history of the March, I'm not sure there has ever been a more beloved steward than she." He continued.
So, where were they in her end days? Why hadn't they checked up on her more... why had they let her languish in the poverty of Dockside, the squalor of the single bedroom apartment they had shared because it was all Delia could afford after they had been tossed from the stately brownstone in Old Temple for non-payment of the lease. A noble in a most ignoble position.
Delia said none of it, even if the words burned on the back of her tongue, pressed to a stop against the ridges of the back of her teeth. She let them hang themselves from the sinewy rafters of the roof of her mouth, strangling the life from their vitriol before it could ever live on her lips. Swallowing the corpses of words unspoken, she curved the motion into a tight smile that failed to reach her eyes. "I don't think there's a soul that could contest that."
That much was true.
"I won't keep you longer than necessary then. We've made a room up for you at the manse. Anything you may need can be seen to by the staff there. They are available from an hour before sunrise until three hours after sunset. And we are but down the hill should you need anything beyond that." Mythanar was to his feet by that point, sweeping a deep bow that only furthered Delia's discomfort. She couldn't remember the last time a man had bowed to her prior to the last twelve hours.
That time when one of the Phoenix's patrons puked on her shoes. That's right.
Ensuring the recollection didn't reflect in her expression, she gave Mythanar and his scribe a shorter and far more shallow bow once she too was on her feet. Graeme rose but bowed to no one, instead moving for the door to open it for the remaining three.
By the time they escaped, the sun had set and the streets had cleared, leaving Graeme and Delia to trek to the house without an audience.
Re: Emerald & Ash
Fewer prying eyes, fewer stares of pity. Word had assuredly spread about the March that the Marchioness's heir had arrived. Graeme alone often garnered more than his share of looks by virtue of both his physical stature as well as his reputation. But the Graeme that Delia remembered was no vicious knight waging a war of righteousness against any that stood in opposition to the Grove. No, he had been a gentle boy once, that much she knew and remembered.
Delia had been but a young girl when she had last come to Andira with her parents to spend Yule with her paternal grandmother. Long before scars and swords and battles he would never talk about wore him into the finely honed, deadly, but surly creature that walked alongside her, he had been the second son of a well established family in the March. The first son, Braern, had been set to inherit the family estate and the responsibilities that came with it. With but a modest inheritance on the horizon and the minimal social clout that came from being the spare to the heir, Graeme had two choices in life; marry well, or make a name of your own. Neither sounded like much fun, if you asked Delia.
After hearing the grown ups whisper about it around an after dinner smoking table, the next day she found Graeme in the town garden, gently transferring the rabbit kits that had taken to chewing the lower leaves off the plants, taking them from their hidey holes and amongst the greenery and moving them to a well protected thicket beyond the edge of the garden where they might be both safe and well seen to, without sacrificing the edible things in the garden itself. Delia had watched him for some time before finally calling attention to herself. At five years older than she, he had already hit his growth spurt and had shot up tall enough to tower over her when she neared.
"Are you really going to marry that awful girl my gran said you were gonna?"
"Go away, I don't wanna talk about it."
He had refused to talk about it, save to say that he would become a strong knight and protect all of Andira. It seemed a choice had been made and it was a choice he stuck to as he aged, growing from the lanky boy with a soft spot for flora and fauna alike, into the imposing monolith of a man that he was today.
How things change in less than two decades.
And what of Delia? How had she changed from the curious, starry eyed girl that Graeme had last known as children.
Though over the years, they had spoken by letter and lesser by phone, it had been eighteen years since they had seen each other in person. That he had recognized her in the tavern had been a surprise unto itself. But his was an aura she could have picked out of a crowded room with ease, so she supposed she couldn't be too surprised. She could only hope that any changes she had undergone since he last saw her were good.
Time had not been kind after all.
Her parents had died three months after their last visit to Andira, their work with the Harpers caught up to them in the worst way. Her grandmother had moved to Rhydin City soon after to be with Delia. The years passed and Andira became a memory for them both. Graeme, the young boy that he was, became a memory too, only coming back into focus decades later as the end of her grandmother's life approached after they had both grown up.
"They had your bags delivered to the house and your mare will be brought to the estate stable in the morning. They thought it best to let her rest until then. Fiery one, she is, aye?" Graeme spoke as they walked, his voice a low rumble like wagon wheels on gravel, a softly soothing tone that muted their footfalls on cobbles that became brick as they passed through the open wrought iron gate of the Andira Estate.
"Indeed, but she was our fastest steed." Delia hummed. In actuality, Zephyr was the only horse remaining of a far larger collection that had belonged to her grandmother once upon a time. The others had been sold over the years, or given away in cases where they were too old to have monetary value. Their care was expensive and their price was high for some, equating to an easy decision when it came to keeping the bills paid. Zephyr's care was paid for by Delia's sweat with a twice a month mucking of the entire stable, all forty stalls of it.
"Fiery steed for a fiery lass, I suppose it fits." Graeme's tone, though hardly unchanged from normal, seemed to indicate some subtle level of teasing. Delia couldn't remember the last time she had heard him make a joking comment, even when they were children.
"Don't tell me you've developed a sense of humor, Venris." Delia scoffed as they made their way up the winding path. Had they gone direct to the front door, it would have been far quicker but at a much steeper incline up the hill. The curling switchbacks dug into the incline were more leisurely even if they tripled the time it took. Delia supposed she didn't mind overmuch how long it took. Tired as she was, the company was fine enough if only because he didn't pry nor did he give her the pitiful stares that others did.
"I've always had a sense of humor." He countered, wounded.
Delia gave him plenty of side-eye to indicate she believed exactly none of that. Graeme huffed and moved forward to step up onto the front landing of the house's entrance so that he could reach the door before her.
House.
It wasn't a house. It was... hell, even mansion didn't suit it. It was massive, several floors and accented with two circular towers on opposing corners of the building. Constructed of stone and rich timber, it had stood since the town's founding and had always housed those with the Andira name.
And now it was hers.
Delia had been but a young girl when she had last come to Andira with her parents to spend Yule with her paternal grandmother. Long before scars and swords and battles he would never talk about wore him into the finely honed, deadly, but surly creature that walked alongside her, he had been the second son of a well established family in the March. The first son, Braern, had been set to inherit the family estate and the responsibilities that came with it. With but a modest inheritance on the horizon and the minimal social clout that came from being the spare to the heir, Graeme had two choices in life; marry well, or make a name of your own. Neither sounded like much fun, if you asked Delia.
After hearing the grown ups whisper about it around an after dinner smoking table, the next day she found Graeme in the town garden, gently transferring the rabbit kits that had taken to chewing the lower leaves off the plants, taking them from their hidey holes and amongst the greenery and moving them to a well protected thicket beyond the edge of the garden where they might be both safe and well seen to, without sacrificing the edible things in the garden itself. Delia had watched him for some time before finally calling attention to herself. At five years older than she, he had already hit his growth spurt and had shot up tall enough to tower over her when she neared.
"Are you really going to marry that awful girl my gran said you were gonna?"
"Go away, I don't wanna talk about it."
He had refused to talk about it, save to say that he would become a strong knight and protect all of Andira. It seemed a choice had been made and it was a choice he stuck to as he aged, growing from the lanky boy with a soft spot for flora and fauna alike, into the imposing monolith of a man that he was today.
How things change in less than two decades.
And what of Delia? How had she changed from the curious, starry eyed girl that Graeme had last known as children.
Though over the years, they had spoken by letter and lesser by phone, it had been eighteen years since they had seen each other in person. That he had recognized her in the tavern had been a surprise unto itself. But his was an aura she could have picked out of a crowded room with ease, so she supposed she couldn't be too surprised. She could only hope that any changes she had undergone since he last saw her were good.
Time had not been kind after all.
Her parents had died three months after their last visit to Andira, their work with the Harpers caught up to them in the worst way. Her grandmother had moved to Rhydin City soon after to be with Delia. The years passed and Andira became a memory for them both. Graeme, the young boy that he was, became a memory too, only coming back into focus decades later as the end of her grandmother's life approached after they had both grown up.
"They had your bags delivered to the house and your mare will be brought to the estate stable in the morning. They thought it best to let her rest until then. Fiery one, she is, aye?" Graeme spoke as they walked, his voice a low rumble like wagon wheels on gravel, a softly soothing tone that muted their footfalls on cobbles that became brick as they passed through the open wrought iron gate of the Andira Estate.
"Indeed, but she was our fastest steed." Delia hummed. In actuality, Zephyr was the only horse remaining of a far larger collection that had belonged to her grandmother once upon a time. The others had been sold over the years, or given away in cases where they were too old to have monetary value. Their care was expensive and their price was high for some, equating to an easy decision when it came to keeping the bills paid. Zephyr's care was paid for by Delia's sweat with a twice a month mucking of the entire stable, all forty stalls of it.
"Fiery steed for a fiery lass, I suppose it fits." Graeme's tone, though hardly unchanged from normal, seemed to indicate some subtle level of teasing. Delia couldn't remember the last time she had heard him make a joking comment, even when they were children.
"Don't tell me you've developed a sense of humor, Venris." Delia scoffed as they made their way up the winding path. Had they gone direct to the front door, it would have been far quicker but at a much steeper incline up the hill. The curling switchbacks dug into the incline were more leisurely even if they tripled the time it took. Delia supposed she didn't mind overmuch how long it took. Tired as she was, the company was fine enough if only because he didn't pry nor did he give her the pitiful stares that others did.
"I've always had a sense of humor." He countered, wounded.
Delia gave him plenty of side-eye to indicate she believed exactly none of that. Graeme huffed and moved forward to step up onto the front landing of the house's entrance so that he could reach the door before her.
House.
It wasn't a house. It was... hell, even mansion didn't suit it. It was massive, several floors and accented with two circular towers on opposing corners of the building. Constructed of stone and rich timber, it had stood since the town's founding and had always housed those with the Andira name.
And now it was hers.
Re: Emerald & Ash
Delia and Graeme turned in with little incident once inside. Too tired to do much of anything at all, she retired after a small meal, taking with her a tapered candle set into a brass holder. Her room was... a lot. Four-post bed, lush bedding, more pillows than she could have ever needed. The room itself was larger than the entire apartment she had shared with her grandmother in Dockside.
She woke to breakfast, something light paired with a fresh squeezed juice that gave her a vague sense of deja vu. Though she could have gone for something heartier, the task ahead was heavy enough that she knew she couldn't go on a full stomach. A shower helped wake her and before long, she joined Graeme downstairs in the manse's entryway.
He had donned an ensemble of leather and cloth, practical and protective. Delia, by contrast, had selected structured linen breeches and a light flowing tunic she had cinched around the middle with a leather belt. He looked her over in a way that made her feel vulnerable, picked apart even if he never said a word about her attire.
"Are you ready?" He asked, reaching for the door.
"As ready as I can be." She grimaced, stepping through once it was open.
They had a short ride ahead of them followed by a longer hike through the woods in order to reach the Grove of the Heartsong Vale. It wasn't far from where they were but it would take most of the day to get there. They set off soon after, taking Zephyr for Delia and a stallion named Specter for Graeme, leaving the March behind in favor of winding trails through the Everwood.
The sun rose high overhead, its rays forcing their way between the evergreen trees. Delia found herself wishing she'd packed sunglasses, though she doubted they would have done much good. The air was warm and still, the breeze coming mostly from within the forest. Eventually they turned off the path and dismounted, tying the horses up to a wooden cross-post that had seen better days.
As they set off through the woods, Graeme did his best to walk beside her but stepped in line behind at times when the path was too narrow for two.
"Do you wish to go over the process again?" He asked.
Delia shook her head. "I've had the past four years to come to terms with this. It's a conversation I've had in my head a thousand times or more... every single time it looked like the end was coming."
Graeme nodded. "You're right, it's been a long road. From what I understand, your grandmother didn't want to give up on you."
"She should have," Delia replied. She could feel Graeme's eyes boring into her after she spoke the words but she didn't look his way.
"None of this is your fault, you know that right?" He said after another hundred yards of silence broken only by the tromping of boots in earth left damp by late winter and decay.
"How do you figure? Had it not been for me, she would've been here til her end days. She could have gone to the Vale earlier... or maybe the Grove could have helped prolong her life. She would have had better care too and the people would have their beloved Marchioness." Delia bounced a shrug that resettled the quiver strap over one of her shoulders.
"You were just a kid." He countered, the frown evident in his voice. "And your parents were quite literally assassinated. Nearly you too. She wouldn't have been the beloved Marchioness had she let her only grandchild end up in an orphanage."
Delia had no retort for that. It was a fair point at that, even if she hated reconciling what happened to her family with what her grandmother had given up in order to be with her. If the former had been avoided, the latter certainly would have.
They walked along in the shade of the trees, passing the occasional stream that ran down to the river. Delia thought it odd to see water in motion, even a trickle, when the weather had been so harsh and cold all winter. The grasses were green again, a welcome sight after the gray of everything else. They stopped for lunch, sitting on a bench built into the side of a hill that overlooked the river below. Delia ate sparingly while Graeme took advantage of the food and drink laid out before him.
Afterward, they continued onward, Delia falling into a rhythm as they trekked deeper into the forest. It was more difficult than she remembered it being, the ground becoming uneven underfoot. Sometimes, it was so soft that they sank ankle-deep into mud, requiring both to find new paths forward. Once, they fell back onto the path, sliding downhill until they came to a stop.
"There's no going forward from here," Graeme said, looking down.
"What does that mean?" Delia asked. "It means we're here and now you must see if the Grove will permit your entry."
Before them, the path faded away into soft grass and from there thicker foliage, so dense it blocked the view beyond save for slivers and slices of light peeking through the trees. Wholly mundane as it seemed, Delia felt the intense feeling of eyes upon her, as if the entire forest was judging her every motion.
"Step forth, weary travel. Rest your head, rest your heart." She murmured to herself and took the first step into the grass. It was soft, almost like a blanket against her skin. She went to move again and Graeme caught her arm.
"Wait." She stopped, letting him lead her forward. There was nothing there, no trees or bushes, nothing but her and the grass. When she reached the edge of it, she tried to take another step but he held her wrist firmly.
"Now you must wait to pass." He murmured softly.
Delia held her breath for what felt like an eternity before at last, a thrum of life spread through the ground beneath her feet. Branches and shrubs peeled away, curling with moving earth as it all opened up before her. Delia blinked, staring out into the open space that stretched before her. It was wide enough that she would have fit her entire home into it. Yet, instead of walls, there were rows and rows of trees, some taller than others, stretching out far and wide. Like a tunnel, a path, all leading to their final destination. It was only then that Graeme released her with an exhale of relief.
"Heartsong Vale awaits." He said, and stepped into the grass with her. As they progressed forward, the earth moved behind them, swallowing the path as they walked and wiping away any hint of their time there. Delia kept her eyes fixed on the Grove, watching as the branches and trunks shifted and bent to accommodate the two travelers. She watched as they passed, feeling the leaves brush her cheeks like a gentle hand. In the distance, she saw a flash of silver, reflecting the sunlight back into her face.
They walked for an eternity and a moment in one and when the approach deemed them fit, it spread out like a rivermouth, opening to a wide sweeping meadow that seemed an endless ocean of gently waving green capped with the pastels of early spring. The sky above was a beautiful blue, dotted with puffy white clouds that floated across the heavens. The whole thing was enchanting, even overwhelming, and Delia found herself having trouble breathing.
"It's beautiful..." She whispered, unable to stop staring at the scene before her. Graeme put his hand on her shoulder, squeezing lightly.
"Welcome to the Grove of the Heartsong. Now, listen closely."
"Listen?" Delia asked, turning to look up at him.
He nodded. "We're here for a reason and the Grove knows it. You may choose to speak to it but remember that it is a living thing. It won't respond well to demands or anger, only to respect and friendship."
"It's listening?"
Graeme smiled, giving her shoulder another squeeze as he led her forward. "It always listens, but it doesn't have ears like us. It hears things in a different way. Even here, it can hear the beating of the hearts of those who pass through. That's why it is so hard to get in. Not all hearts are good."
"But how do we know it’s hearing us?"
"The Druids speak its will."
As if on cue, a wild looking woman in leathers and furs appeared before them. Her braided hair was a mess of chestnut struck through with tendrils of stark white and her wide eyes were the same clear color as the sky above them. She wore a harness over her hips, holding an axe and a curved sword that hung at her back. A thick belt of bones circled her waist, forming a crescent to complete the picture.
"This is Beryl. She'll be your guide." Graeme introduced them and offered his hand. Beryl looked them over and slid her hand atop Graeme's. The Warden brought her hand to touch lightly at his forehead before releasing her.
"Beryl, this is Delia Thel'andira. She comes on behalf of House Andira... and of the Lady lost." He said out of formality alone. Beryl knew just as well as he did that Delia would one day make this trek. It accounted for the sad kindness in her smile as she turned her attention from the Warden to the flame haired half-elf with him.
"The Youth of House Andira, such strong blood doth flow in thine veins. Much have we been told of you... by the March's Lady and by the roots of the Vale." Beryl nodded a singular time and turned away from the pair with a gesture for them to follow. Swaying daisies and daffodils parted the way for the Druid, allowing the trio to pass without leaving a trace upon the earth. Beryl led them to an alcove cut from the meadow, a shaded bowery half circled in the wood of fallen trees, half decayed but no less cover. Graeme sat down on a rickety chair that had seen better days, and Delia did likewise, settling in with a sigh.
"So tell me of your journey, Delia Thel'andira."
"What... I... figured you knew?" Delia asked, confused.
"We know what the Warden has told us. We know what the Roots have told us. But we know not just how you would tell your story." Beryl said, settling on a low stone bench that surrounded a small fire pit. "The Vale's strength rises in your blood, the world is not ready for your arrival yet. And yet... here we are."
Delia swallowed and glanced toward Graeme, who shrugged. Delia looked back to Beryl.
"I came to send my grandmother to the Vale... to say goodbye and fulfill her final wishes. To return to the Grove." She explained to the druid who listened with rapt attention, her piercing blue eyes never leaving Delia's.
"And so you have. Not to fear, my child, the ceremony will begin at the day's first light upon the morrow. The people will be permitted their goodbye and she will be returned to the earth as intended." It felt as good as a promise coming from Beryl. "Now, tell me of yourself."
Delia took a deep breath. "Well, I'm the last of House Andira. I grew up in a place called Rhydin City... a day's ride to the south of the March. My parents lived there with me when I was young and then my grandmother did the same after their passing. I took care of my grandmother after she became ill and now that she is at rest, I'm here to tie up loose ends."
"Ah, the ties that bind us all." Beryl mused as she stroked her long fingers over the wooden surface of her seat. "Your mother, your father... the latter we are well acquainted with. Your mother... less so."
"I know... only because she was an outsider and could not be sent to the Vale." A point of contention to say the least. Delia shifted in her uncomfortable seat.
"There are no outsiders to the Vale, only resonances that must find rest elsewhere." Beryl corrected, gently enough to not be chiding, but not so much that Delia felt soothed by any of it. "But in all of that, you spoke of others but seldom yourself. Tell me not of your caretakers but rather of yourself. Who are you outside of others?"
"I uh..." Delia glanced over to Graeme, who imparted no words of wisdom to help her. "I'm just... Delia."
"Well, Just Delia, I suppose it's time to find out." Beryl stood up and began walking around the fire pit with a purposeful stride. "Come, let us talk of beginnings and endings."
From the woods around them stepped others in similar garb to Beryl. Tall, small, men, women, others ambiguous in nature. Some humans, some elves, some in between. They all had a feral aura to them, as if they were driven by the motion of the wind in the trees and the thrum of the earth under foot. Beryl beckoned and they closed in, finding spaces to stand around them, enclosing Beryl, Delia, and Graeme in a circle. It wasn't suffocating though and Delia couldn't help the feeling of comfort, as if their presence was a warm hug.
Before her, Beryl stooped beside the fire with a stone bowl the size of her palm. She poured and mashed and mixed and sieved, combining an assortment of herbs and roots and topping the mush off with a healthy amount of milky green liquid. When all was said and done, the bowl was near brimming, rippling as Beryl stood to bring it over to her.
"In order to release Iselphenee to the Vale, we must grant her the blessing of blood. Once you let her cross, the Vale will then answer just who shall fill her formidable shoes." Delia took the bowl from the druid, holding it aloft in one hand.
"For many generations, the Vale has called upon the blood of those who come to say farewell to their loved ones. May the blood of those present now be given freely to the forest, the roots, and the soil." Beryl spoke as she reached for Delia's free hand. A bone sharp blade slashed a shallow dig against the soft flesh of her inner forearm to well red against fair skin. Delia hissed quietly but didn't protest. She gently tugged the half-elf to her feet and led her to the fire pit, rounding the opposite side as Delia stood before it. The druid held her hand across the fire, squeezing with just enough force to get the blood to curl in dripping threads from the small wound. Once flowing properly, she turned their hands so that it could drip into the flames below. Sizzling hissing sounded, smoke curled, and color blossomed within the flame.
"Now drink." Beryl encouraged her, still holding her arm over the prickling heat of the now green flame. Delia lifted the bowl and downed it in one go, wincing at the bite of thick liquid in her throat. She set the bowl aside and looked to Beryl, waiting for instruction.
"Now, close your eyes." Beryl instructed her as she leaned forward. Delia obeyed and Beryl cupped her face in both hands, her touch cool compared to the flames of the fire between them. "Show me who you are, Delia Thel'andira."
Her head was cloudy, filled with the haze of cloying smoke scented with herb and blood. The blue of the sky seemed to turn green and then yellow and the sun slipped behind a cloud to cast the meadow in long shadows. Delia thought to look to Graeme but when she turned her head, he was gone. The other druids were too, even if she was certain she could hear their chanting in her ears. Beryl stood before her still, her eyes locked upon Delia without blinking.
"Show me who you are." The voice in Delia's head repeated. She wanted to look anywhere else but there was nowhere. There was nothing but the druid standing before her, her eyes so intense and green. But wait, hadn't they been blue a moment ago? The trees swayed, bending unnaturally. A bit like wet pasta, Delia thought, wiggling and warbling like some sort of psychedelic trip.
She looked down at their hands and frowned at the blood dripping down her arm. The fire was gone, the pit a memory. It was only her bare feet in the dirt and when she looked back up, Beryl too was gone and her hand was holding nothing but air. Then she felt as though she were falling.
Falling.
Falling deeper and deeper until she was lost to the depths of the sky. Light and dark intertwined, twisting and twirling together like a nest of serpents. Delia tried to call out but found her voice stolen away and replaced with a shriek of wind. A black shape passed overhead and she flinched, trying not to remember the dragon she had seen in the Vale. This was different. This was cold and dark and empty.
The shadow loomed, Delia screamed, turning away from it only to trip, stumble, and fall to the ground.
When she opened her eyes, they burned with the sun's bright rays. She blinked against the pain, stretching her neck and cracking her joints. A groggy haze filled her mind and when she looked around, she was surprised to see the meadow below. The trees swayed slowly in the breeze, giving her no trouble to find her footing. Beryl was nowhere to be seen. Graeme stood nearby with a strange expression, staring at the meadow with wide eyes.
"Graeme?" She asked, unsure of what exactly she was asking. He didn't respond, instead taking her hand and leading her from the shadows of the bowery and into the light of the meadow. The grass was velvet under foot, though she was certain she had been wearing boots when this all started.
By contrast, his hand was rough in hers as he gently led her further and further into the tall grass and flowers. They reached the center of the clearing and he stopped, turning his eyes upwards toward the yellow sky. She looked up as well but saw nothing save for wisps of clouds. The shadow was gone, the void had cleared. When she looked back down, it was no longer Graeme before her but her grandmother.
Only it wasn't her grandmother as she had been when she had died, or even when her essence had visited Delia in the bathroom the night she had passed. Instead, Iselphenee Thel'andira was young, healthy and hale. Her luscious red hair was bound in dual braids that flowed down behind her ears and rested on the front of her shoulders.
"Gran?" Delia asked, hopeful.
"Hello, dear heart." Her grandmother smiled, a gentle expression that made the corners of her eyes crinkle with kind mirth.
"I suppose this time it's really it... isn't it?" She asked, receiving a small nod of confirmation from the woman.
"I can feel it, Delia, the magic of the Vale is calling me home." Iselphenee turned and pulled Delia into a tight embrace. "It's time for me to leave and I want you to know how proud I am of you. You've grown into a very strong young lady, Delia. Stronger than I ever knew you to be. I will miss you terribly but know you'll do well."
"Wait, Gran, I don't understand. Do well at what?" Delia wrapped her arms around her grandmother and held her tightly. The smell of freesia in her hair was so real, it brought tears to her eyes.
"You're going to take my place, Delia!" Iselphenee laughed lightly. "What better way to honor the legacy of our line than to carry on in its stead?"
"No, I... I don't think I can." Delia shook her head, trying to pull away but being unable to break free of her grandmother's grip.
"Oh, you will." Iselphenee assured her, pulling her closer again. "Not only will you be able to, I'm sure you'll do more than I ever could. I've always known that about you, dear heart. I hope to see you again soon, Delia. Remember, I will be with you always. Each step you take, you are not alone. Now it is time we say goodbye. My seat in the Vale awaits."
Delia closed her eyes and breathed deeply, taking in the scent of her grandmother one last time. She felt herself slipping away, rising above the grass and trees. The sun had risen higher in the sky and the warmth of the day burnished her skin with its touch. As her grandmother slipped from her grasp, she felt the woman sink into the earth little by little and in turn, Delia's anchor to the ground was nowhere to be found as she drifted higher and higher.
It was as though the sky may swallow her whole. Up and up and up and up, rising into the golden sky until she could see the whole of the Everwood around them. For miles, an endless expanse of the Vale's reflection on the woods, lush green, full of life. Only Khalreshaar's blessed were granted visions such as these and for a moment, Delia simply took it all in. It was an unasked question, an offer, she need only take it.
"I will..."
With her answer, she fell from the sky, the earth rising to meet her with a gentle embrace amongst the grass and flowers of the meadow. The wind rushed past her face. A silver glow surrounded her and then she was falling, caught up in the swirl of the air until petal soft silk wrapped her in safety.
The world around her went dark.
She woke to breakfast, something light paired with a fresh squeezed juice that gave her a vague sense of deja vu. Though she could have gone for something heartier, the task ahead was heavy enough that she knew she couldn't go on a full stomach. A shower helped wake her and before long, she joined Graeme downstairs in the manse's entryway.
He had donned an ensemble of leather and cloth, practical and protective. Delia, by contrast, had selected structured linen breeches and a light flowing tunic she had cinched around the middle with a leather belt. He looked her over in a way that made her feel vulnerable, picked apart even if he never said a word about her attire.
"Are you ready?" He asked, reaching for the door.
"As ready as I can be." She grimaced, stepping through once it was open.
They had a short ride ahead of them followed by a longer hike through the woods in order to reach the Grove of the Heartsong Vale. It wasn't far from where they were but it would take most of the day to get there. They set off soon after, taking Zephyr for Delia and a stallion named Specter for Graeme, leaving the March behind in favor of winding trails through the Everwood.
The sun rose high overhead, its rays forcing their way between the evergreen trees. Delia found herself wishing she'd packed sunglasses, though she doubted they would have done much good. The air was warm and still, the breeze coming mostly from within the forest. Eventually they turned off the path and dismounted, tying the horses up to a wooden cross-post that had seen better days.
As they set off through the woods, Graeme did his best to walk beside her but stepped in line behind at times when the path was too narrow for two.
"Do you wish to go over the process again?" He asked.
Delia shook her head. "I've had the past four years to come to terms with this. It's a conversation I've had in my head a thousand times or more... every single time it looked like the end was coming."
Graeme nodded. "You're right, it's been a long road. From what I understand, your grandmother didn't want to give up on you."
"She should have," Delia replied. She could feel Graeme's eyes boring into her after she spoke the words but she didn't look his way.
"None of this is your fault, you know that right?" He said after another hundred yards of silence broken only by the tromping of boots in earth left damp by late winter and decay.
"How do you figure? Had it not been for me, she would've been here til her end days. She could have gone to the Vale earlier... or maybe the Grove could have helped prolong her life. She would have had better care too and the people would have their beloved Marchioness." Delia bounced a shrug that resettled the quiver strap over one of her shoulders.
"You were just a kid." He countered, the frown evident in his voice. "And your parents were quite literally assassinated. Nearly you too. She wouldn't have been the beloved Marchioness had she let her only grandchild end up in an orphanage."
Delia had no retort for that. It was a fair point at that, even if she hated reconciling what happened to her family with what her grandmother had given up in order to be with her. If the former had been avoided, the latter certainly would have.
They walked along in the shade of the trees, passing the occasional stream that ran down to the river. Delia thought it odd to see water in motion, even a trickle, when the weather had been so harsh and cold all winter. The grasses were green again, a welcome sight after the gray of everything else. They stopped for lunch, sitting on a bench built into the side of a hill that overlooked the river below. Delia ate sparingly while Graeme took advantage of the food and drink laid out before him.
Afterward, they continued onward, Delia falling into a rhythm as they trekked deeper into the forest. It was more difficult than she remembered it being, the ground becoming uneven underfoot. Sometimes, it was so soft that they sank ankle-deep into mud, requiring both to find new paths forward. Once, they fell back onto the path, sliding downhill until they came to a stop.
"There's no going forward from here," Graeme said, looking down.
"What does that mean?" Delia asked. "It means we're here and now you must see if the Grove will permit your entry."
Before them, the path faded away into soft grass and from there thicker foliage, so dense it blocked the view beyond save for slivers and slices of light peeking through the trees. Wholly mundane as it seemed, Delia felt the intense feeling of eyes upon her, as if the entire forest was judging her every motion.
"Step forth, weary travel. Rest your head, rest your heart." She murmured to herself and took the first step into the grass. It was soft, almost like a blanket against her skin. She went to move again and Graeme caught her arm.
"Wait." She stopped, letting him lead her forward. There was nothing there, no trees or bushes, nothing but her and the grass. When she reached the edge of it, she tried to take another step but he held her wrist firmly.
"Now you must wait to pass." He murmured softly.
Delia held her breath for what felt like an eternity before at last, a thrum of life spread through the ground beneath her feet. Branches and shrubs peeled away, curling with moving earth as it all opened up before her. Delia blinked, staring out into the open space that stretched before her. It was wide enough that she would have fit her entire home into it. Yet, instead of walls, there were rows and rows of trees, some taller than others, stretching out far and wide. Like a tunnel, a path, all leading to their final destination. It was only then that Graeme released her with an exhale of relief.
"Heartsong Vale awaits." He said, and stepped into the grass with her. As they progressed forward, the earth moved behind them, swallowing the path as they walked and wiping away any hint of their time there. Delia kept her eyes fixed on the Grove, watching as the branches and trunks shifted and bent to accommodate the two travelers. She watched as they passed, feeling the leaves brush her cheeks like a gentle hand. In the distance, she saw a flash of silver, reflecting the sunlight back into her face.
They walked for an eternity and a moment in one and when the approach deemed them fit, it spread out like a rivermouth, opening to a wide sweeping meadow that seemed an endless ocean of gently waving green capped with the pastels of early spring. The sky above was a beautiful blue, dotted with puffy white clouds that floated across the heavens. The whole thing was enchanting, even overwhelming, and Delia found herself having trouble breathing.
"It's beautiful..." She whispered, unable to stop staring at the scene before her. Graeme put his hand on her shoulder, squeezing lightly.
"Welcome to the Grove of the Heartsong. Now, listen closely."
"Listen?" Delia asked, turning to look up at him.
He nodded. "We're here for a reason and the Grove knows it. You may choose to speak to it but remember that it is a living thing. It won't respond well to demands or anger, only to respect and friendship."
"It's listening?"
Graeme smiled, giving her shoulder another squeeze as he led her forward. "It always listens, but it doesn't have ears like us. It hears things in a different way. Even here, it can hear the beating of the hearts of those who pass through. That's why it is so hard to get in. Not all hearts are good."
"But how do we know it’s hearing us?"
"The Druids speak its will."
As if on cue, a wild looking woman in leathers and furs appeared before them. Her braided hair was a mess of chestnut struck through with tendrils of stark white and her wide eyes were the same clear color as the sky above them. She wore a harness over her hips, holding an axe and a curved sword that hung at her back. A thick belt of bones circled her waist, forming a crescent to complete the picture.
"This is Beryl. She'll be your guide." Graeme introduced them and offered his hand. Beryl looked them over and slid her hand atop Graeme's. The Warden brought her hand to touch lightly at his forehead before releasing her.
"Beryl, this is Delia Thel'andira. She comes on behalf of House Andira... and of the Lady lost." He said out of formality alone. Beryl knew just as well as he did that Delia would one day make this trek. It accounted for the sad kindness in her smile as she turned her attention from the Warden to the flame haired half-elf with him.
"The Youth of House Andira, such strong blood doth flow in thine veins. Much have we been told of you... by the March's Lady and by the roots of the Vale." Beryl nodded a singular time and turned away from the pair with a gesture for them to follow. Swaying daisies and daffodils parted the way for the Druid, allowing the trio to pass without leaving a trace upon the earth. Beryl led them to an alcove cut from the meadow, a shaded bowery half circled in the wood of fallen trees, half decayed but no less cover. Graeme sat down on a rickety chair that had seen better days, and Delia did likewise, settling in with a sigh.
"So tell me of your journey, Delia Thel'andira."
"What... I... figured you knew?" Delia asked, confused.
"We know what the Warden has told us. We know what the Roots have told us. But we know not just how you would tell your story." Beryl said, settling on a low stone bench that surrounded a small fire pit. "The Vale's strength rises in your blood, the world is not ready for your arrival yet. And yet... here we are."
Delia swallowed and glanced toward Graeme, who shrugged. Delia looked back to Beryl.
"I came to send my grandmother to the Vale... to say goodbye and fulfill her final wishes. To return to the Grove." She explained to the druid who listened with rapt attention, her piercing blue eyes never leaving Delia's.
"And so you have. Not to fear, my child, the ceremony will begin at the day's first light upon the morrow. The people will be permitted their goodbye and she will be returned to the earth as intended." It felt as good as a promise coming from Beryl. "Now, tell me of yourself."
Delia took a deep breath. "Well, I'm the last of House Andira. I grew up in a place called Rhydin City... a day's ride to the south of the March. My parents lived there with me when I was young and then my grandmother did the same after their passing. I took care of my grandmother after she became ill and now that she is at rest, I'm here to tie up loose ends."
"Ah, the ties that bind us all." Beryl mused as she stroked her long fingers over the wooden surface of her seat. "Your mother, your father... the latter we are well acquainted with. Your mother... less so."
"I know... only because she was an outsider and could not be sent to the Vale." A point of contention to say the least. Delia shifted in her uncomfortable seat.
"There are no outsiders to the Vale, only resonances that must find rest elsewhere." Beryl corrected, gently enough to not be chiding, but not so much that Delia felt soothed by any of it. "But in all of that, you spoke of others but seldom yourself. Tell me not of your caretakers but rather of yourself. Who are you outside of others?"
"I uh..." Delia glanced over to Graeme, who imparted no words of wisdom to help her. "I'm just... Delia."
"Well, Just Delia, I suppose it's time to find out." Beryl stood up and began walking around the fire pit with a purposeful stride. "Come, let us talk of beginnings and endings."
From the woods around them stepped others in similar garb to Beryl. Tall, small, men, women, others ambiguous in nature. Some humans, some elves, some in between. They all had a feral aura to them, as if they were driven by the motion of the wind in the trees and the thrum of the earth under foot. Beryl beckoned and they closed in, finding spaces to stand around them, enclosing Beryl, Delia, and Graeme in a circle. It wasn't suffocating though and Delia couldn't help the feeling of comfort, as if their presence was a warm hug.
Before her, Beryl stooped beside the fire with a stone bowl the size of her palm. She poured and mashed and mixed and sieved, combining an assortment of herbs and roots and topping the mush off with a healthy amount of milky green liquid. When all was said and done, the bowl was near brimming, rippling as Beryl stood to bring it over to her.
"In order to release Iselphenee to the Vale, we must grant her the blessing of blood. Once you let her cross, the Vale will then answer just who shall fill her formidable shoes." Delia took the bowl from the druid, holding it aloft in one hand.
"For many generations, the Vale has called upon the blood of those who come to say farewell to their loved ones. May the blood of those present now be given freely to the forest, the roots, and the soil." Beryl spoke as she reached for Delia's free hand. A bone sharp blade slashed a shallow dig against the soft flesh of her inner forearm to well red against fair skin. Delia hissed quietly but didn't protest. She gently tugged the half-elf to her feet and led her to the fire pit, rounding the opposite side as Delia stood before it. The druid held her hand across the fire, squeezing with just enough force to get the blood to curl in dripping threads from the small wound. Once flowing properly, she turned their hands so that it could drip into the flames below. Sizzling hissing sounded, smoke curled, and color blossomed within the flame.
"Now drink." Beryl encouraged her, still holding her arm over the prickling heat of the now green flame. Delia lifted the bowl and downed it in one go, wincing at the bite of thick liquid in her throat. She set the bowl aside and looked to Beryl, waiting for instruction.
"Now, close your eyes." Beryl instructed her as she leaned forward. Delia obeyed and Beryl cupped her face in both hands, her touch cool compared to the flames of the fire between them. "Show me who you are, Delia Thel'andira."
Her head was cloudy, filled with the haze of cloying smoke scented with herb and blood. The blue of the sky seemed to turn green and then yellow and the sun slipped behind a cloud to cast the meadow in long shadows. Delia thought to look to Graeme but when she turned her head, he was gone. The other druids were too, even if she was certain she could hear their chanting in her ears. Beryl stood before her still, her eyes locked upon Delia without blinking.
"Show me who you are." The voice in Delia's head repeated. She wanted to look anywhere else but there was nowhere. There was nothing but the druid standing before her, her eyes so intense and green. But wait, hadn't they been blue a moment ago? The trees swayed, bending unnaturally. A bit like wet pasta, Delia thought, wiggling and warbling like some sort of psychedelic trip.
She looked down at their hands and frowned at the blood dripping down her arm. The fire was gone, the pit a memory. It was only her bare feet in the dirt and when she looked back up, Beryl too was gone and her hand was holding nothing but air. Then she felt as though she were falling.
Falling.
Falling deeper and deeper until she was lost to the depths of the sky. Light and dark intertwined, twisting and twirling together like a nest of serpents. Delia tried to call out but found her voice stolen away and replaced with a shriek of wind. A black shape passed overhead and she flinched, trying not to remember the dragon she had seen in the Vale. This was different. This was cold and dark and empty.
The shadow loomed, Delia screamed, turning away from it only to trip, stumble, and fall to the ground.
When she opened her eyes, they burned with the sun's bright rays. She blinked against the pain, stretching her neck and cracking her joints. A groggy haze filled her mind and when she looked around, she was surprised to see the meadow below. The trees swayed slowly in the breeze, giving her no trouble to find her footing. Beryl was nowhere to be seen. Graeme stood nearby with a strange expression, staring at the meadow with wide eyes.
"Graeme?" She asked, unsure of what exactly she was asking. He didn't respond, instead taking her hand and leading her from the shadows of the bowery and into the light of the meadow. The grass was velvet under foot, though she was certain she had been wearing boots when this all started.
By contrast, his hand was rough in hers as he gently led her further and further into the tall grass and flowers. They reached the center of the clearing and he stopped, turning his eyes upwards toward the yellow sky. She looked up as well but saw nothing save for wisps of clouds. The shadow was gone, the void had cleared. When she looked back down, it was no longer Graeme before her but her grandmother.
Only it wasn't her grandmother as she had been when she had died, or even when her essence had visited Delia in the bathroom the night she had passed. Instead, Iselphenee Thel'andira was young, healthy and hale. Her luscious red hair was bound in dual braids that flowed down behind her ears and rested on the front of her shoulders.
"Gran?" Delia asked, hopeful.
"Hello, dear heart." Her grandmother smiled, a gentle expression that made the corners of her eyes crinkle with kind mirth.
"I suppose this time it's really it... isn't it?" She asked, receiving a small nod of confirmation from the woman.
"I can feel it, Delia, the magic of the Vale is calling me home." Iselphenee turned and pulled Delia into a tight embrace. "It's time for me to leave and I want you to know how proud I am of you. You've grown into a very strong young lady, Delia. Stronger than I ever knew you to be. I will miss you terribly but know you'll do well."
"Wait, Gran, I don't understand. Do well at what?" Delia wrapped her arms around her grandmother and held her tightly. The smell of freesia in her hair was so real, it brought tears to her eyes.
"You're going to take my place, Delia!" Iselphenee laughed lightly. "What better way to honor the legacy of our line than to carry on in its stead?"
"No, I... I don't think I can." Delia shook her head, trying to pull away but being unable to break free of her grandmother's grip.
"Oh, you will." Iselphenee assured her, pulling her closer again. "Not only will you be able to, I'm sure you'll do more than I ever could. I've always known that about you, dear heart. I hope to see you again soon, Delia. Remember, I will be with you always. Each step you take, you are not alone. Now it is time we say goodbye. My seat in the Vale awaits."
Delia closed her eyes and breathed deeply, taking in the scent of her grandmother one last time. She felt herself slipping away, rising above the grass and trees. The sun had risen higher in the sky and the warmth of the day burnished her skin with its touch. As her grandmother slipped from her grasp, she felt the woman sink into the earth little by little and in turn, Delia's anchor to the ground was nowhere to be found as she drifted higher and higher.
It was as though the sky may swallow her whole. Up and up and up and up, rising into the golden sky until she could see the whole of the Everwood around them. For miles, an endless expanse of the Vale's reflection on the woods, lush green, full of life. Only Khalreshaar's blessed were granted visions such as these and for a moment, Delia simply took it all in. It was an unasked question, an offer, she need only take it.
"I will..."
With her answer, she fell from the sky, the earth rising to meet her with a gentle embrace amongst the grass and flowers of the meadow. The wind rushed past her face. A silver glow surrounded her and then she was falling, caught up in the swirl of the air until petal soft silk wrapped her in safety.
The world around her went dark.
Re: Emerald & Ash
The first thing she noticed when she regained consciousness was the fact that her head hurt. She struggled to open her eyes, squinting against the bright sunlight streaming through the trees. Graeme was nearby, watching her. Beryl and the other druids were just further, watching as well. All of them had a look of concern on their faces.
"Beryl?" Delia asked, sitting up slowly, careful not to move her head too quickly. Everything seemed to be spinning and she needed to find out why.
Her question was answered moments later when her vision cleared and she saw the old woman standing over her. There was something different about her, however, compared to the other druids. She appeared older, frailer. Where she previously wore leather and fur, she now wore flowing white robes, though they were a bit frayed at the hem and there were wrinkles around her mouth that hadn't been there before.
"Ah, it's good to see you awake, child." Beryl smiled warmly. "We feared you might not wake, so soundly you slept."
"I thought you took ill," Graeme told her softly. "You should have seen it. Delirious, raving. It frightened us half to death."
"Well, it frightened you, at least." Beryl was all mirth to Graeme's grave countenance.
Delia kneaded the heel of her hand into her forehead. "What happened? I saw my grandmother... and then..."
Beryl stepped back and gestured to the forest around them. "That's a long story, Delia, but perhaps later. We're here to welcome you home."
Delia looked around, seeing the druids, but also others she didn't recognize. They were dressed differently, the men in steel armor and the women in shirts and dresses. Some even wore capes, like the ones the King of the Silver River used to wear. She turned her attention to the druids instead. Most were of middle age or older, with gray or white hair. She recognized Elandril, who greeted her joyfully. Then there was Severel, who nodded politely before looking down at the ground and walking away. And finally, there was Graeme, who stood next to her and watched the crowd as he waited patiently. He didn't seem to pay much attention to anything else around him.
"Are you feeling alright?" He asked quietly.
"Yes, I'm fine," Delia assured him. "Just a bit dizzy. What's going on here? Why are all these people here?"
Graeme glanced around the bowery. "They came to witness the Grove's decision."
"Decision?" She asked.
"Aye... with the lack of clarity as to who might fill the Marchioness's seat should you not, they came to see who the Grove would deem best suited to do so." He explained softly. "We've been deliberating for days, but the truth is we all want someone of your lineage, Delia. We'd like you to sit in that chair. And it seems the Grove's will agrees."
"But what if I fuck it all up?" Delia asked. "I don't know anything about politics! I couldn't make any decisions if I tried!"
Graeme shrugged his shoulders. "Who knows what you can do, Delia? Your family has always led us, been our voice, fought beside us. The Grove trusts you. It wants you to lead us. That's why they've gathered here today."
Delia straightened up slowly, taking stock of herself. Every fiber of her being ached. Her arms and legs were sore, her muscles stiff and achy. But it wasn't enough to keep her from standing. She looked around again, taking in everything she could see.
While some side conversations were occurring, it seemed most eyes were on her, as if a collective breath was held as they awaited her response.
"I suppose that means I'll need to say something?" She offered hesitantly. Graeme chuckled and walked forward, helping her stand.
"Before we send the Marchioness off, we must know who will take her place. Will it be you? Will you take the mantle so that she might rest?"
Delia paused, looking at the group assembled before her. She looked at each one and wondered how they felt about her being chosen as the new Marchioness. Would their loyalty waver? Only half of the March, how would they react to someone so young, so inexperienced, so not of their culture? There were more questions than answers, but at this moment, all that mattered was the answer she gave.
Delia's voice rang out clearly over the chatter and murmuring, surprising everyone, herself included.
"I accept."
The crowd erupted with cheers and applause, and then the entire group began to applaud in unison, which spread quickly through the crowd until every face was raised proudly toward the sky.
"Beryl?" Delia asked, sitting up slowly, careful not to move her head too quickly. Everything seemed to be spinning and she needed to find out why.
Her question was answered moments later when her vision cleared and she saw the old woman standing over her. There was something different about her, however, compared to the other druids. She appeared older, frailer. Where she previously wore leather and fur, she now wore flowing white robes, though they were a bit frayed at the hem and there were wrinkles around her mouth that hadn't been there before.
"Ah, it's good to see you awake, child." Beryl smiled warmly. "We feared you might not wake, so soundly you slept."
"I thought you took ill," Graeme told her softly. "You should have seen it. Delirious, raving. It frightened us half to death."
"Well, it frightened you, at least." Beryl was all mirth to Graeme's grave countenance.
Delia kneaded the heel of her hand into her forehead. "What happened? I saw my grandmother... and then..."
Beryl stepped back and gestured to the forest around them. "That's a long story, Delia, but perhaps later. We're here to welcome you home."
Delia looked around, seeing the druids, but also others she didn't recognize. They were dressed differently, the men in steel armor and the women in shirts and dresses. Some even wore capes, like the ones the King of the Silver River used to wear. She turned her attention to the druids instead. Most were of middle age or older, with gray or white hair. She recognized Elandril, who greeted her joyfully. Then there was Severel, who nodded politely before looking down at the ground and walking away. And finally, there was Graeme, who stood next to her and watched the crowd as he waited patiently. He didn't seem to pay much attention to anything else around him.
"Are you feeling alright?" He asked quietly.
"Yes, I'm fine," Delia assured him. "Just a bit dizzy. What's going on here? Why are all these people here?"
Graeme glanced around the bowery. "They came to witness the Grove's decision."
"Decision?" She asked.
"Aye... with the lack of clarity as to who might fill the Marchioness's seat should you not, they came to see who the Grove would deem best suited to do so." He explained softly. "We've been deliberating for days, but the truth is we all want someone of your lineage, Delia. We'd like you to sit in that chair. And it seems the Grove's will agrees."
"But what if I fuck it all up?" Delia asked. "I don't know anything about politics! I couldn't make any decisions if I tried!"
Graeme shrugged his shoulders. "Who knows what you can do, Delia? Your family has always led us, been our voice, fought beside us. The Grove trusts you. It wants you to lead us. That's why they've gathered here today."
Delia straightened up slowly, taking stock of herself. Every fiber of her being ached. Her arms and legs were sore, her muscles stiff and achy. But it wasn't enough to keep her from standing. She looked around again, taking in everything she could see.
While some side conversations were occurring, it seemed most eyes were on her, as if a collective breath was held as they awaited her response.
"I suppose that means I'll need to say something?" She offered hesitantly. Graeme chuckled and walked forward, helping her stand.
"Before we send the Marchioness off, we must know who will take her place. Will it be you? Will you take the mantle so that she might rest?"
Delia paused, looking at the group assembled before her. She looked at each one and wondered how they felt about her being chosen as the new Marchioness. Would their loyalty waver? Only half of the March, how would they react to someone so young, so inexperienced, so not of their culture? There were more questions than answers, but at this moment, all that mattered was the answer she gave.
Delia's voice rang out clearly over the chatter and murmuring, surprising everyone, herself included.
"I accept."
The crowd erupted with cheers and applause, and then the entire group began to applaud in unison, which spread quickly through the crowd until every face was raised proudly toward the sky.
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