Beltane 2022: The Great Hunt!

[Death Knell]

The Mocking Groves of Dame Isabel
((A live event for Wednesday, May 4th at 8:00 p.m. ET in the #tiamori-river channel.))

The mighty Tiamori River winds its way through the Wilds, separating the furthest, most alien and inhospitable forests from the woodland where more RhyDinians willingly tread. But fords and ferries are not the only crossings here: circles of mushrooms, standing tones, and sacred trees connect this place to the Feywild, among the ways used by fae visitors each year to celebrate Beltane with RhyDin's denizens.

But this year, a mocking presence has dissuaded faint-hearted travelers, and doomed many of the bold.



Dense groves of willows hang over the wooded expanse, their long leafy limbs reaching out like thorny fingers to catch and grasp at the skin and clothes of passersby. These are no sweet riverside shading trees. Rather, they are the menacing columns and arches of the mockingbirds’ roost. Greeting all who dare enter with a welcome of caws and screeches, the mockingbirds defend their den with the come-ons and calls of the darkest of RhyDin’s back alleys. Lurid propositions and cackling laughter taunt those who dare to stray beneath with offenses and teases that slice close to the bone. Bring not your insecurities here, for the mockingbirds will make you their prey.



Press on past the verbal volleys and you will find the scintillating reflections of a hidden brook dancing among the swaying branches, its babbling song scarcely heard over the din. Here the mockingbirds' slings and arrows take on physical form - flying archers whose gray and brown feathers blend in with the willows that serve as their perches. Test fire or steel on them if you will, but only silver and snake venom can ground them for good.



Shrieks pierce the air the further upstream you venture, until you find the source - a final grove where the mockingbirds' choirmaster takes her broken prey to watch them rot. As many bones as branches litter the soft earth around the spring, piercing those unsteady on their feet - or any who take a tumble in the fray. But the real threat is the choirmaster herself, Dame Isabel, a ten-foot huntress who wields an iron flute and a spear as long as she is tall.

Every shriek through the flute may stun those who do not brace themselves properly, ringing your ears with words you regret. No less sharp are the point and long edges of her spear, swung in wide arcs to take down as many foes as she can. And she may scatter into a swarm of pecking, clawing mockingbirds when dealt grievous harm, reforming on better ground to regroup and attack again.

Only an offering will keep her from taking flight, for she cannot resist mocking what is given, flouting the old forest's rules of hospitality. But whoever provides the distraction may sacrifice more than their gift, as they will face the brunt of her ire.

Struck enough in this way, or without her mockingbird companions to rely on, she will fall. But first hunters must brave her groves, face the slings and arrows of the mockingbirds, and best the Dame Isabel in her lair.

((Many thanks to Eden Parker for her help writing this; and to Nero, Gatito, Alexia, Anya, and anyone I missed in the lobby discussing the spooky possibilities of screaming willows and mockingbirds!))

[Death Knell]

Word has gone out to the inns, taverns, and guild halls of RhyDin, providing details of the threats and exhorting only those who are strong enough to assemble at the Hunters Guild camp on the Lower Tiamori River this Wednesday the 4th, at dusk. There, the slayer known as Ettyn will guide hunters to the Mocking Groves and through its trials to Dame Isabel.

Each hunter is promised a cash reward of three hundred nobles and, assuming the Dame Isabel is successfully slain, a share in the loot in her lair and an exclusive Emerald Mark provided by the Hunters Guild.



((We will be using dice rolls in the #green-room to determine who affects Dame Isabel and her minions, and how much! The total number of "hits" she can take will be determined by the number of participants. If you reply to this thread with what your character is doing to prepare for the hunt, the gear they are bringing, or other things, then you can re-roll failed rolls up to three times! Again, this event will be this Wednesday, May 4th at 8 p.m. eastern.

Thank you to the player behind the Hunters Guild for participating, and for creating the Emerald Mark!))

[Jackson]

With a new Hunt coming up Jackson has been spending some time in his workshop. Working on his cane for quite some time with a few new enchantments. This may be his first major hunt, but he sure as hell isn’t going to disappoint.

[Angelic]

Angel agreed to attend in an official capacity, being on hand to bandage wounds and to heal those that would allow it. Before the hunt, if asked, he also offered temporary boons and beneficial prayers that boosted those participating in some capacity. Whether it was the ability to hit harder, see farther, or cast more efficiently, he was happy to help.

A far cry from his usual dapper suits, he wore priestly robes and boots that could stand up to the mud of the riverbanks.

[Anya de la Rose]

Anya hung to the fringes of the hunt as the party assembled and set off. Armed with a poison spiked whip and astride a sure footed horse she'd rented for the day, she waited patiently for the others to get underway. Once the main body had set off down the central path, she and her mount assumed a meandering lope to mop up pursuers and herd targets towards the fighters.

[Canaan]

Among the hunters gathered in Guild camp is one Canaan Devillier, dressed in worn battle leathers and armed with a pair of bearded hand axes, their handles carved from solid bloodwood and inlaid with carnelian gems. He’s also brewed a few potions to go along with the supply of powdered venom and silver nitrate he carries with him into the fight, all of which he keeps in an easily accessible, magically reinforced pouch strapped to his thigh.

[Azure Wayfinder]

Azure settled down at the Hunters Guild camp, preparing for the hunt. She was dressed in her leathers, with layered clothing underneath to keep warm in the Wilds, especially if the weather turned wet and windy. Windhoof was with her, but instead of her javelin and knives, she wielded a pair of one-handed, wide-bladed axes. After all, if they were dealing with trees, it helped to be prepared, and they would work just as well against fauna.

[Kira Adia]

Kira looked forward to the call of another Great Hunt, and she was more than pleased to hear its announcement. The Huntress cleared her entire week of appointments and, donning her old hunting gear once again, she took to the Wilds, scouting the area and setting up supply caches for any hunter near the River that may need it. On the day of the Hunt, rather than join in with the melee, Kira took her usual posture of staying on the periphery, hunting down any who attempted to flee the fury of the hunt and making an effort to interdict those who may try to interfere.

[Anubis Karos]

A tapestry of silhouettes ebbed and undulated like the turbid sea, painted from a frenzy of precise motions by the humble whisps of candlelight. Writhing tufts of sienna bled wax with each flicker, breathing silvery whorls which coalesced into a miasma overhead; a cloud which mournfully drifted like a damned soul looking for an ingress into oblivion....or in this case, any sort of window at all in this wattle cell.

But there was none. And that was for damn good reason.

The Egyptian kept this hut on his lands, but well apart from Blackvale's opulent grounds; and if the rumors which streamed from the lips of slaves in limestone recesses were at all true, this was prudent. And indeed, they were: Before Anubis now was a staggered terrace of translucent mews, incarcerating the languid forms of the most dangerous serpents in the known world. The relactrint had been threatened from time to time with the deadly chore of feeding this frightening melange, but truth be told...Anubis preferred the task himself. Every hiss was a hymn to Set. Every shuddering rat was a sacrifice.

But his task today was different, as the array of silvery arrowheads on a workman's bench behind him would testify. Refined fingers cast open a door with the devil-may-care flippancy of the truly stupid, revealing the serpentine king of death: A living, breathing bullwhip with slate-gray scales garbing pure muscle like brigandine armor, the choleric phantom that lurked in the scrub of the African veldt. Unlike the viper's hateful stare, the noir dots of it's eyes feigned innocence; unlike the cobra's bared fangs, it was blessed with a smile like one would see on a friendly grandparent.

A sinuous limb darted in a speed which was greater than that of the serpent; obviously a necessity but beyond mortal capabilities all the same. Thumb and forefinger locked just behind the neck, exposing the stygian maw which gave the black mamba it's name. Venom was bled from small fangs by a tap of his finger, death's wine saturating a dull, brown cloth until it was soaked. When it was done, the snake was returned to it's lair with an even more urgent flurry of motion, and a silvery arrowhead was wrapped in the venom-filled rag.

It was then gingerly placed along the other arrows. He was ready.

[Death Knell]

Ettyn was there at the riverside camp before the hunt started, traversing the trails a final time before the hunt — and before nightfall drew out Dame Isabel and her minions. She was clad in her usual armor for monster hunts, half-plate with mithril mail and chimera hide, which looked heavy but she seemed to wear it easily and move silently in it.

For weapons, she had brought her old silver longsword, a silver-studded whip, and a heavy grugach war-bow with a quiver of newly crafted silver arrows. If asked, she might be convinced to part with a few. The same could be said of the silver vials of snake venom she carried in a padded bandolier, processed to better stick to weapons.

There were hands here to tend to people’s horses, and a few rangers to protect the camp. She could be heard in low conversation with some of them, gathering information and delivering instructions. The rest of the time, she sat cross-legged by the fire, eyes lowered as she attuned her mind, body and soul for the hunt ahead.

[Desdenova VonTombs]

It was concerning. A mage of some sort binding herself to the mockingbirds, then forcing them to her evil. Mockingbirds were special, sacred, it was a sin to kill one. They taught people to talk, they learned all of the songs of the birds, they were patience embodied.

Evil was its own reward, but there was a line, and this Dame Isabel was firmly on the wrong side. As he had promised Ettyn, Desdenova set forth to make a sacrifice in the names of the mockingbirds which had been wronged by Isabel.

Not far from the grove, at the crossing of two paths, the boy sang in a pretty alto, which cracked and broke now and again. If his older brother knew he was there, the elder Desdenova would banish the boy, and the younger simply did not care. These were things that must be done.

An oak curled its way upwards in heavy tangles of wood and greenery and mosses, a knee of it standing perhaps two feet high, thick, flat topped, and bearing an ancient stone bowl. Long had offerings been made there, and now, another would be made.

"Father of Crows, King of the Winds, blessings be upon those warriors which free your children Mockingbirds from the cruel claws of a hand and magic unkind and improper to command the Singers, the Teachers, The Patient, The Wise," Desdenova called, lifting his lightless gaze skywards.

"I bring libation, blood for blood, that what is spilled shall be sacred," he went on, calmly pouring out a blackish and thick liquid into the bowl. It was blood taken from sheep, mixed with water and maple sap.

"I bring provisions, that the journey to freedom is easier." He dropped a handful of crunchy cat food into the bowl, followed by a measure of cow's milk, acorn meal, and a cup of crushed Japanese beetles.

"I bring death, for many shall die; be not cruel to the warriors, they bring freedom to those mockingbirds which are forced to fight. Let this owl guide them Home." Thereupon he placed a road killed owl, stiff and decaying, into the bowl as well.

"I pray that there is no more suffering than this owl has felt for those enslaved mockingbirds, that they may return to All in peace."

Clasping his hands together, he sang the rest of the song he had come with, a rilling and sweet tune of rushing water. He didn't so much as twitch a hair when his voice was joined by a deeper, richer, man's voice. But he did sigh faintly...

Before his elder brother snapped off the banishment.

A silver circle scribed onto the ground beneath the boy's feet with a blue flame, and the moment it joined, reality opened beneath him. Little Desdenova didn't so much vanish as he slid out of sight.

Muttering in irritation, the elder Desdenova crumpled a large leaf of tobacco in his hands and let the crumbles fall onto the altar. He then turned and strode away. Soon enough, he would find the hunters waiting, and joined them, silent.

As always, the young man wore a dark suit, white shirt and black tie, his long black hair in a braid down his back. He was uncannily still, the mottled blue and green of his eyes flickering at any touch of the light.

[Haru Jeong]

It had been some time since a certain cambion had joined in a hunt. Yet for the hunt he passed through the grasping vines, slipping through their shadows with ease, keeping his presence hidden from those who would guard the woods. He took up a position in a tree, watching, waiting for the game to begin.