Calwen's opening

The Churlwood
These are a far cry from the lush evergreen forests of the northern lands; the sky above you is blotted out by a ceiling of thick, tangled branches with sagging, half-dead leaves; the earth beneath Whitemane's hooves is squelching muck one step, slick, greasy moss the next. Huge, knobby roots creep across the forest trail, making each of your steed's steps slow and deliberate. The hot, humid air is nearly suffocating, and the buzzing of insects rings constantly in your ears. They are more than just a noisy distraction, however- more than once, you have been forced to swat a fat, eager mosquito from your neck. The Churlwood more than lives up to its unpleasant name. And to think: you haven't even had any run-ins with beasts or bandits as of yet. Both, your intel suggests, call the Churlwood home.

Galeth's dryad- Lyila, he calls her- should reside somewhere nearby, if the map he provided you is accurate. Still, given the state of the Churlwood, the fact that anything- much less the nature-loving fey- could stand to live here is surprising.

After hours spent navigating the sweltering wood, you finally see a hint of respite: the colors of the leaves begin to grow more lush, and the trickling of some nearby stream reaches your ears. The dryad's domain is near.

You enter into a glade wholly unlike the rest of the Churlwood, where the trees possess a sort of keen vitality to them, and several small streams converge into a large, tranquil pool. At the center of the pond is a large tree, gnarled and twisted like its neighbors but possessing a singular peculiar beauty about it; its thick, ropey branches stretch upward and outward, its canopy filtering through several beams of sunlight that splay across the pool. Enormous roots arch up like bridges before plunging back into the pool. It is a dramatic and beautiful sight, exactly the sort of tree one might imagine being bound with a dryad.

As you near the edge of the pool, Whitemane trots forward and bends down to drink from the sparkling pool. As he does, three tiny heads poke up from beneath the water and stare up at you with curious eyes. These tiny, aquatic fey women are Nixies. Though every bit as capricious as the rest of their fey brethren, they seem harmless enough. The tiny girls giggle, and each one pops its head up out of the water to speak in turn:

"An elf's come to see us, girls!"

"From the great white north, from the looks of it!"

"Pretty thing, she is! What's your name, elf?"

"Quiet, you! She's here to see Lyila, I'd wager!"

"They always come to see Lyila! She's not the only pretty fey around the Churlwood, you know..."

As the trio of tiny fey continue to banter back and forth, you feel a brisk wind slip through the trees and send ripples across the pool, seeming to originate from the enormous tree.

"Oh, would you look at that? Seems ye've got Lyila's attention already," one of the fey in the pool pops up to say. "I'd get in there and impress her, if I was you, elfy-elf. Don't worry, we'll watch your pretty horse for you.  Less'n an owlbear comes 'round  looking for a meal, o'course.  Then I'm afraid you lot are on your own."

Calwen
Calwen is concerned as she travels the strangely sick and compromised forest and removes and loosens pieces of her slow weather equipment bit by bit. As she comes closer to the fey grove and the forest around her is more and more healthy it is relief to her, but the sensation of a threat remains.

When the nixies suddenly show up Calwen smiles, but it is not an entirely unburdened smile. "Shall sun and rain embrace you, ladies of the forest." she returns in Sylvan, "I am afraid I am indeed here to see Lady Lyila, whose beauty has left quite a mark on the White Rose. Yet, it appears that my friend has veiled the secrets of this grove well when he did not speak of your charm and your beauty."

She removes Windmanes saddle, reins and other great strapped to him, piles the equipment on a stack and add her own sword and shield to it - she would not need her weapons to speak to dryad in her own grove. She also drops her backpack, but takes the small case with the flute out of it. "Enjoy playing with the fey" she whispers in elven into Windmanes ear, before she leaves for Lyila's tree. Fey are quick to anger, that's true, but this one was important to Galeth and hers was the about only beautiful place in the forest for many miles... if not the entire forest at all.

GM
"You flatter us, madame!" one of the nixies chirps in Sylvan at your compliment.

Seeing you remove your flute case, the nixies look at one another and nod, impressed.

"Either this one's done her homework, or she's got good instincts! Lyila's a real music lover!" "Go get 'em, lady!" "There's a bit of a sinkhole over there on the right, watch out for that!" "Don't get your armor rusty! And don't go around in wet boots, you'll get a fungus!" "Quiet, you! Elves don't get fungus.  You're gross." "Your face is gross!"

The nixies continue to banter as you approach the tree. The pool is about knee deep, but seems to get deeper as it grows closer to the tree.

Calwen
Since it turns out that she will actually have to go into the pool and the air is relatively warm and pleasant she continues undressing - dryads don't usually wear clothes as far as she knows, why would she? "You are right, everything I carry, other than this flute will only burden me. Could you watch out a little for my belongings? We elves depend on the things we carry. Regarding the flute - a good friend has given me that hint, but I love to play it either way." she says with a wink to the nixies. Fey have different few on property than other civilized races. Technically the fey could rob her blind without even considering it be theft be feyish standards, yet everything else but leaving her equipment behind would be a disgrace.

Then she approached the majestic oak and started to play. Don't think too much, just play. she thought, so she started with themes from elven epics and improvised from there. Whether it would be an homage to the beauty of the fey, something dramatic that reflected the threat of the blight or something that reflected her own emotions and recent history she did not know or even plan. True music must come on its own.

In a way she understood they fey as she stepped naked into the pool and let the water embrace her. There was no man here who may have seen it as a provocation, only the true natural self, without borders or boundaries, only one's own beauty in alignment and contact with that of the natural world. She had hardly ever felt more true - and even though she did know how many got lost in the world of the fey for that beauty, she was here to help and the fey would probably not enchant her to stay. They needed the help of the rose.

She casts a quick glance over her shoulder to see what Windmane does.

GM
For a moment, you become lost in your music, filling the glade with a melody so eerily beautiful that even the chattering nixies are forced into silence by it. They stop tying braids into Windmane's hair long enough to stop and sit at the edge of the pool, watching you perform with wide, enchanted eyes. Windmane, too, seems moved by the music, and lifts his muzzle from the pool to stare at you. Those eyes of his

You are not sure exactly when Lyila first appears, but after what feels like an hour of playing, you look up to find the dryad sitting atop one of the great oak's enormous roots, serenely listening to your song. She is impossibly lovely, in that way that only the fey can be- with brown skin swirled with woodlike patterns, long hair tied into a hundred braids interwoven with vines and leaves, and long, elf-like ears. She rests her chin in the palms of her hands with her elbows on her knees as she watches.

When at last your song draws to an end, Lyila relaxes, lowering her feet into the water and kicking playfully. "Welcome, Knight of the White Rose," she says. "Friend of Galeth. I see that you share his gift for music... perhaps surpass it, even.  Your song was lovely.  Thank you for it."  She grins and adds: "I wonder, should I perhaps just keep you all to myself?  I could have Galeth send for yet another friend within his Order..."

Her expression sobers somewhat as she considers this. "...but I fear I may have waited too long as it is. Not every life lingers as  long as our own.  Tell me your name, maiden fair, and I shall tell you the true reason for which you have been called to me." 

Feel free to do so, along with any other conversation you might wish to make before she moves along.

"I have many friends within this forest," Lyila says. "Not just among the fey or our kin, but even among the dustlings- humans, you might call them- that live here. The Churlwood is, for the most part, a beast of a wood, but it nonetheless bears at its breast a great deal of precious life that needs protection.  There is no true order to their numbers, but several druids live in this forest, many of whom I have a quite cordial relationship with.  We help protect one another and the life of this wood, you see."

"One of these druids is a half-human named Armand Rastveille, a young bloke alongside whom I have hoped to solve the mystery of the blightings that your Order or Galeth no doubt has informed you of. Armand has been looking into the matter for me at some length, as these horrid outbreaks have been increasing in frequency as of late- many fey have been caught up in the corruption, I fear, and turned into broken shades of their former selves.  A faun I was quite fond of was caught up in one blighting, and twisted so far that I fear I had to drive him from the Churlwood altogether... mmm, such a tragedy."

"Armand seemed to have a lead, you see. There is a dustling village not far from the Churlwood's edge- Ravenmoor, they call it- that suffered from one of the very first blightings, several of their lifetimes ago.  And yet, somehow, they have nursed that land back from the dead through some means that is beyond even me.  The curse that brings these blightings is powerful indeed, so there must be some trick to how a town of simple farmers were able to salvage a blackened land from the brink of utter desolation..."  She pauses to sigh, as if her own inability to solve the matter is an insult to her pride. Knowing the fey, that very well could be the case. "And now Armand has stopped communicating with me altogether. It could be because he learned of Galeth not long ago- poor boy was in no mood to listen to my explanation, can you believe it?  It must be the dustling in him.  They seldom understand the way love works between us fey and our kin.  But I fear now for his safety- his dwelling is deep within the Churlwood where no other fey will travel, and I am, of course, bound to this place... Even the trees no longer whisper his name.  I worry that Armand might have stumbled onto something sinister. Please, would you do me the honor of checking into poor Armand's wellbeing for me?  And, should indeed he no longer be capable of it, learn what you can of this strange matter in Ravenmoor?  I can, should you require persuasion, make the matter worth your while."

She watches you expectantly and bats her eyes like a child asking her mother to buy her a sweet.

Calwen
"Thank you for your welcome to this sanctuary; If I was to be kept in one place forever, I would like enjoy that place to be this glade. But my spirit is not yet ready settle down, but to I unfold as leaf of the Rose's blossom. Galeth's heart, however, is already with you in this place and might very well remain so forever, if that is your choice, Lady Lyila." Lyila didn't seem to take the relationship with Galeth very seriously, otherwise she would have not talked so casually about that faun she was fond of. Still she cast a silent prayer to Shelyn that there was space for more as she walked up with all her elven pride to the fey until she met her eye to eye.

''A slight shiver runs down her spine as the dryad looks at her with that look. There may be many creatures on this world who would be able to deny her a request when she looks at them like this. But if it is so then I am sorry for them. "I will do whatever I can, and with me the White Rose. So, if you feel you need grant me a favour in turn, you know which part of the Rose might flourish most by your kiss." she couldn't help but show a bit of a queer smirk as she Lyila started to speak of druids.''

She had seriously hoped to stay out of druid business. Druids could be very funny if one stuck your one's in their business, but they were usually a good people if one did not. "Have you considered the possibility that this village may have prevailed when everyone else did not by making a deal with the evil that causes it? That they are themselves compromised, even if the forest around them is less so?" she paused on this grave thought for a moment.

Finally her mood lightened up a bit she added with a mild smirk: "Regarding Armand... what can you tell me, woman to woman, in detail about Armand? Half-human, half... elf or fey? Do you claim him in any way? if you do, now might be a good time to mention it." The smirk briefly became a grin. "Does he tend to change into any interesting beasts which annoy you or you are fond of? Private details you tell me in this regard will remain between us forever and ever, by my love for the Eternal Rose and all the music in my heart." The Eternal Rose was no reference to the White Rose, of course, but to Shelyn.

GM
The dryad's lips curl up into a grin as she listens to you speak. "Your words are a music all their own, my dear elf. I would bid you return here when your task is finished, should it not offend your sensibilities, that I may hear more such poetry spill from those lips.  And do beware of speaking of kisses, lest I steal one from you myself."  She giggles and twirls one of her braids with a finger. "But in all seriousness, no, I hold no claim to poor Armand, as his is a life too short to bind so tightly; it would sadden me to relieve him of the will to come and go as he pleases. That said, when he chooses to stay close by and visit near-daily, I have no complaints... In truth, Galeth is the one who has ahold of my heart as of late. I fear poor Armand is still a bit sour over this fact."

"Regarding the possibility that Ravenmoor might have made some terrible infernal contract, I believe that was one of the theories Armand was looking into at my behest. It certainly seems a likely explanation, but any knowledge useful in putting an end to the blightings as quickly as possible is knowledge worth seeking."

She leans back and sighs, staring thoughtfully up at the twisting branches of her tree. "Armand is half-elf, as it happens. He's quite fond of wolves, as he takes one as his trusted companion, but to the best of my knowledge he is not one terribly inclined to wild-shaping.  I saw him turn into a falcon once; he flew straight into a tree branch and took a nasty tumble.  Terrible luck, that poor boy has.  I'd have had him become a frog for my amusement, but he seems terribly frightened of the prospect- why, I haven't the foggiest!  What harm could I do him if he were a frog?  Alas, I shall share more still: He sometimes bears an unpleasant smell beneath his boots.  He is allergic to raspberries.  He likes to nibble. Do with that what you will."

Her glee soon fades into melancholy. '''"Ah, and now you have me missing that poor, silly boy. Please do collect him for me, so as to set my fears at ease.  Armand is a dear friend, and I would be broken if something terrible has happened to him.  If he indeed is fine, and I worry for nothing, would you mind terribly having a look at that blasted village for yourself?  Ravenmoor has captured my thoughts of late, and they are not pretty ones.  Also, Galeth may have told you of the whisperings of the trees.  They speak to me of a coming, an advent-to-be, regarding this town.  I will consort with them while you are away and learn as much as I can; perhaps it is a stroke of your Eternal Rose's famous luck that a party will soon approach Ravenmoor searching for answers of their own.  I am no Norn, but I trust my instincts and the words of my verdant brothers and sisters enough to declare this: there is something shared between our plight and theirs. 'Twould seem your fates are bound to become intertwined before long." She lifts a leg and points past you with her foot.  "Off with you, now, southward two hours or so to Armand's home. Watch for the reed men, they will show you the right path. When you see the tree of one of my long-dead sisters, you will know you have come to the right place."'''

Calwen
"So I shall, but take this gift from me, so you will not be forced to steal." Calwen gives Lyila a kiss on the cheek (if she doesn't back away) and curtseys as she takes a step away. With a smile and no more words she takes her leave, and only send out for Windmane mentally. She lets him play a bit more with the nixies, curious how his hair is gonna look in the end, and puts her clothes, armor and equipment back on. Finally however, there is no more reason to delay her departure and with a deep sigh and a look back to the place where she met the dryad and a blown kiss to the nixies, she rides out into the corrupted forest.

He likes to nibble. the thought still echoed in her mind. Quite cheeky of the dryad to plant that thought into her mind.

GM
Lyila does not draw away as you kiss her cheek, and in fact gives you a quick peck of her own before you can step away. "Be careful in the wood, sweet elf, and let the wind carry you swiftly. Farewell for now."

Windmane, whose mighty locks are now tied into a number of tiny braids dotted with colorful rocks and shells, snorts and trots toward you, and the nixies wave goodbye as you depart. The clarity of the air and the refreshing quiet present around Lyila's pool vanish suddenly once you reach the edge of her influence, and again you are struck by the dense humidity that makes the air feel like syrup. As you make your way down the sparse trail, you spot from time to time a tiny human-shaped doll woven from reeds attached to a tree trunk or hanging from a branch.

Windmane carries you down the trail for just over two hours before you see a large, dark pillar of wood sticking up in the middle of a small clearing. Many of the trees around here are cracked and dying, if not already dead- sunlight pours in through the gaps in their branches, lending the area an eerie contrast. The air here is still, stagnant, and some awful stench clings to the place.

The clopping of Windmane's hooves slows to a crawl as he comes through the treeline into the clearing. The huge shape you saw before is an enormous oak much like Lyila's own, but without the pool of water, and with the same sort of dry, cracked texture as the rest of the trees nearby. Dead- as is the dryad that was once bonded to it. A large hollow has been carved into its husk, and within that hollow is Armand's little shack.

It is little better than a hut, really. Evidence abounds that the druid had made some effort to repair the area around his home, judging from the moss and vines criss-crossing the exterior of the structure- some of which has crawled out into and across the broken, long-dead tree. Holly and mistletoe dangle from the awning, and the door of the shack hangs slightly ajar.

Calwen
The contrast could not be much steeper. The vivid, sensual dryad Lyila and the home of a dead dryad, a giant dead oak which is looming as a threat over the forest now. To think that the place was once a place like Lyila's glade was highly unsettling to say the least. She waited for a moment when she arrived at it, but Windmane didn't seem to pick up anything. Right now she would have found the smell of half-man or wolf very soothing.

Calwen strapped her shield on before she climbed of Windmane's back and drew the massive bastard sword from her back right afterwards. "Be on your guard." she whispered to her trusty stallion and circled around the tree and the hut first in order to get an impression, find anything that doesn't seem to fit. She would check out the interior of the hut afterwards. But just to make sure she called out in elven: "Hello, friend. Calwen Snowpaw of the White Rose wishes to speak to you on behalf of the lady of the forest." Lyila might not be "the" lady of the forest, but it was close enough.

Then she started her round.

GM
No answer comes from the shack.

Whitemane snorts and clops anxiously at the ground, and though he seems to have no idea what it might be, he seems disturbed by some smell nearby. Perhaps it is the gloomy, dead aura hanging over the area like a penumbra.

You examine the ground around the entrance to the shack and, though they seem to be weeks old, you find several sets of tracks dotting the soft, muddy earth around the great dead oak's roots. Most of them appear to be the size and shape of the average human male, though one set appears considerably larger- still within human range, but larger than the rest by more than a few boot sizes. There are also a number of strange, pinprick-like holes in the muck as well, but those do not fit any sort of track you recognize.

You begin to cautiously make your way around the back side of the tree, noting that the tracks continue around and into the wood. Strangely, as you peer into the darkness, you spot something hanging in the trees about a hundred yards back, your elven eyes straining to make out the shape.

Calwen
Calwen takes a moment to examine those holes in the ground a little closer. How deep are they? Do they all have exactly the same shape, like someone poked into the ground with the exact same item? What might it have been? A rapier? A wooden pole? Are they all exactly prependicular to the ground? Maybe they have been left by accident or as a side effect of what someone was doing here, but maybe someone did search something in the ground and used a pole to probe for it.

When she notices something in the trees, a bit further along the way the tracks seems to go she hesitates briefly. I will not check this out alone. she told herself, realizing full well that she was a bit of pussy cat again, but that wouldn't stop her from getting Windmane.

She walks in a far circle back around the tree, mounts Windmane again (which is a relatively complicated process with a shield strapped to the left and obviously requires to temporarily sheath the sword) and rides through the bushes, avoiding the existing tracks, towards whatever she saw in the trees to see what it is. Hopefully not a dead body, she did not want to bring Lyila that kind of news.

GM
Investigating further the shape and spacing of the little round holes in the ground, you determine that they are actually somewhat uneven and curved. Their shape and near-consistency reminds you somewhat of the talons of an animal, though you know of no natural creature that walks on a single claw per foot. The holes are spaced erratically, but seem to travel in a more-or-less straight path, a few feet from the human tracks. An eerie image begins to form in your mind, but it remains nebulous until you venture further into the woods, again mounted atop brave Windmane. Together, you find your courage bolstered, and with shield and sword in hand, you press on into the brush. The foul stench in the air grows stronger as you approach, but that terrible silence from before remains as ever.

The sight that awaits you is a grisly one.

Something appears to be suspended in the air between two of the burned-out trees, and the realization of what it is turns your stomach. A body hangs there, suspended by a web of gossamer strands woven between the black branches. The man who hangs there has been dead several days, judging from the state of decomposition, and no doubt ravaged by the local wildlife- a pair of ugly crows flap about nearby, no doubt struggling to find a way to peck at the body without risking being caught in the webbing.

He would have likely been handsome in life, and from the subtle point of his ears, he looks to have been half-elf, half-human.

As you fight the onset of nausea from the sight and stench of the horrific scene, you detect the sound of rustling in the nearby brush to your left. Windmane shifts uncomfortably beneath you.

Calwen
Calwen thought about the tracks as she approached the body, trying to occupy her mind with something else. Why was the distance so erratic? A galloping quadruped could have seemingly erratic tracks, but a quadruped her four legs, not one. A large human with a pole arm on which he rested its weight in irregular intervals? Seemed most likely, but she was not yet convinced. Which pole arm had a curved lower end, shaped like a beast claw?

She was so lost in thought that the smell and the horror of the body almost surprised her, even though she was half expecting it. ''Shelyn! I am too late.'' She hadn't known him, but from what Lyila told her he had been a good guy who had certainly not deserved this. The corners of her eyes filled with tears and she tried to figure out the most gentle way to let the body down, so she may bury him as she notices the rustling in the bushes.

She wasn't in the mood for playing games right now, but turned Windmane to attack position and pointed her blade at it: "Show yourself!" she called out in Taldan. "Know that you are facing Calwen, a Knight of the White Rose, an ally of the man who was murdered here and set to avenge him." Well, maybe it was just a bird. Maybe it was an ally or a frightened innocent bystander, maybe Calwen would have to fight for her life or hunt down her enemies pretty soon. If it was an enemy there was no way she could let it leave after she explained herself, but it was better to do so in order to avoid fatal misunderstandings.

GM
A large, shaggy wolf creeps out of the bushes nearby, patches of long-dried blood on its coat and one eye forever closed thanks to a wound now scarred-over. Between its jaws it carries some strange object- an oblong thing that looks almost like a ladle. It takes a few cautious steps toward you, then drops the object from its jaws and backs away, keeping its head low to the ground. It whimpers weakly as it looks up at the body of the slain druid.

The object, upon closer examination, looks as if it were a part of some strange mask made of clay and sloppily put-together, with an overlarge eyehold covered in mesh, and a long, sharp, beak-like nose that brings to mind the mask of a plague doctor... but proportionally longer and more narrow, almost like a mosquito's proboscis. Some protrusion above the eye is broken off, but it gives off the impression of an antennae. The mask is broken nearly in half, and there are bits of dried blood splattered across it.

The wolf watches quietly as you examine the object, keeping its eye fixed on you.

Calwen
The wolf! Calwen had completely forgotten about that. She put her sword into its sheath on her back and climbs off Windmane's back.  'He may be a predator, but he is friend.'  Hopefully the depth of her feelings for the wolf would not make Windmane even more uneasy. The wolf may be just a beast, but obviously more capable of telling friend and foe apart than she was herself.

She took her backpack off and got two of her rations out. Corn, berries, hardly suitable food for a wolf but everything she she had. She took a small bite of it and then offered it to the wolf, bowed her head, avoided eye contact but sought its proximity. If he would take the first ration, she would offer him a second, drenched in her healing potion. ''I am your friend and feel with you. I am not here to challange you.'' She tried to tell it. She picked up the broken mask and cast a quick look at - Does that nose fit the strange markings on the ground? - but she couldn't make sense of it right now, though it might be worthwhile finding out how the wolf came into its position. Maybe it had killed the original owner and his body was laying somewhere around here or in the hut.

While she didn't really think that the wolf would understand her she continued to speak to it trying Taldan, Elven and Sylvan: "Now what do I do with you? I cannot remotely fathom the loss you suffer, but I understand the bond between a druid and his companion is not unlike mine with Windmane. You are wounded and you have no pack to belong to anymore, but you have proven your loyalty and bravery... Do you remember Lyila's glade? I will take you there when I tell her about... this. But first we need to bury your friend and I need to investigate what happened here. Damn I wish you could talk." Well, maybe a druid could talk to the wolf, but alas she had none with her. She held up the mask and tried to somehow communicate an asking demeanor: "Can you show me from where you have this?" She did not want leave Armand hanging there as a feast for the crows, but this lead may be important.

GM
After several tense moments of sizing you up, the wolf finally accepts the proffered ration and chomps it down. Its lone eye peers up at you as it sits back on its haunches. It seems rather intelligent compared to a common wolf- no doubt due to being the companion of a druid master. Still going to offer it another ration with added healing potion?

After eating its fill, the wolf continues to look on as you examine the mask. The strange nose on the mask does at first look like a good fit for the protrusions you found on the ground earlier, but upon closer examination it seems a bit too wide and too brittle. When you look into the inside of the mask, you note some fragrant ground herbs stuffed into the tip of the nose, but other than that, there is little more to learn from it.

After you ask where it got the mask from, the wolf turns back toward the brush, then pauses to look back at you, as if hoping you might follow.

Calwen
Calwen reaches for Windmane's reins, since she does not want to leave him alone after what happened here and follows the wolf in all haste.

GM
Windmane bears you along the wolf's trail until, after a minute of trotting, you see a shape lying still in the mud near an outcropping of bushes. A white robe stained with old, dried blood covers the bulky humanoid, who seems to have been savaged to death and then dragged off into the brush, considering the way the muck has been disturbed. Perhaps the wolf slew this one during the struggle, then hauled the body away into the foliage sometime later. When you draw closer, you see that it is a ruddy-faced human, with a graying beard and balding head but few notable features aside from that. One of his hands still holds an object, his fat fingers curled tightly in death around the handle of a large, rusting sickle whose edge bears a bit of flaking blood. The wolf glares down at the dead man, then turns to watch your reaction.

Calwen
"Well done." mumbles Calwen to the wolf as she wraps a cover which she usually uses only in very cold wheather around her mouth and gets her hunting knife out. "It was brave of you to fight under such circumstances and it may just have given us a chance to avenge Armand. Watch out a little for me, this will keep me busy for a while." She meant horse and wolf by that, hoping the two would not primarily keep an eye on each other.

Trying to not think too much on what she is doing she starts to search the body for anything unusual, particular herbs and alchemical substances, marks of a possible drug addiction and some kind of indication of cultic belonging to complement the mask. She particularly tries to find something that may have caused the tiny holes in the ground she found earlier, starting with the sickle.

When she raises again she accidently takes a particularly deep breath which almost causes her to choke and vomit, but she manages to think of something beautiful - Lyila's glade and her friends Linuil and Celdril back in Irisen - to calm her thoughts and be able to deal with all this decay.

"Alright, I'll continue to investigate this later. This body can rot here as far as I am concerned, but we have to care about Armand." She looks at the wolf, not sure how much she (?) truely understands. "Do you know a favourite place of Armand? Where he would like to be buryed?"

GM
Windmane and the one-eyed wolf watch one another cautiously as you turn your attention to the body, but thankfully your earlier efforts have calmed the wolf sufficiently that it does not so much as growl at your steed. Working through your disgust, you rummage through the dead man's belongings and find a few items of interest. Stuffed into one of his trouser pockets is a small bag which, when opened, you find to be filled with flayleaf, an illegal narcotic that can be poisonous in high enough doses, though seldom would raw leaf be used in that instance- perhaps this was carried by the killer for recreational use? You also find several vials of a foul-smelling liquid in the man's satchel. Poison, perhaps? Upon closer examination of the man's weapon, the sickle's edge seems to have a trace of the same foul scent upon it. The man's satchel also contains 7 GP in loose coins. You find no implements that resemble the strange pinprick tracks you saw before.

After asking the wolf where Armand might want to be buried, it shows you to a spot a few hundred yards north of the giant dead oak where there is a small patch of furtive land, a tiny circle of narrow-trunked trees and dotting of brush that seems quite peaceful. Perhaps the druid once used this place as a safe haven in which to meditate and commune with nature? Lowering the poor druid's body from the trees takes nearly a half-hour's work cutting away at the spidery webbing, but eventually, you are able to lower him to the ground and carry him to the tiny grove, where you set about the task of burying him.

Now that you are so close to his body, you note that there are a number of small, round piercing wounds dotting his body that resemble more than anything overlarge mosquito bites, and that his body seems to have been drained of all its blood. It is hard to tell whether or not this was what killed him, or if these wounds were inflicted postmortem. Regardless, with great effort and no small amount of patience, you bury the slain half-elf and sit back, exhausted from the effort.

Your next task is to search the shack for any clues. After entering through the front door, you find signs of a struggle; the lone bookcase is overturned, and there are spatters of old blood across the walls, though nothing that indicates any fatal injuries. After a thorough search of the druid's home, you notice a floorboard that creaks more than usual underfoot. Sure enough, the floorboard comes up, revealing a small, leatherbound book that looks well-worn. You flip through the pages and find that the entire thing is written in Sylvan- which, thankfully, you are more than fluent in. It appears to be a journal, though the entries are not dated with any regular schedule- it seems Armand simply jotted things down as they came to mind. Your search also turns up Armand's masterwork quarterstaff, 13 GP and two potions of cure light wounds.

Most of the entries are the same, tiring, poorly-worded odes to Lyila's beauty- or angsty passages lamenting that some "villain" named Galeth had stolen her attention from him. Then, finally, you stumble across his notes on his trip to Ravenmoor, the most recent entries:

1 (dated eight days ago). "The people of Ravenmoor are strange, but friendly enough. Daravon had to stay on the other side of the river, I fear, but she can fend for herself in my absence.  I think I may be the first elf- part-elf, at least- that they have ever seen.  Mayor Kriegler is a friendly sort and has done his best to help me in my investigation.  It seems that, when the first blighting occurred here so many years ago, the town priestess Iola Kriegler (of relation to the current mayor, I imagine), a cleric of Desna, underwent a vision quest deep into the Churlwood to seek aid for her dying village.  There, she had some divine encounter with what they claim to have been the Dreamweaver herself, who shared the secrets of stopping the blight with her.  Iola returned to her village alongside a pair of druids who shared this knowledge, and together they performed rituals that turned back the blighting and restored their village to health- though from the state of it I cannot say that old Iola was entirely successful in this effort. Still, if any life at all can be siphoned back into these blighted regions, there is hope that they might grow anew with care. This fills my heart with hope- I cannot wait to bring this news back to Lyila! She will reward me sweetly for certain. Perhaps enough to share herself with me and me alone. 

2 (dated six days ago). My continued studies have yet to bring forth any details on the rituals Iola Kriegler used to turn back the blight. The novelty of my appearance seems to have worn thin on some of the town's citizens. I have seen more than a few unwelcoming stares over the last few days. This is nothing new- stares like those are what drove me to the druidic life in the first place. Still, for the forest and for Lyila, I will press on until I have uncovered the secret to stopping the corruption that is eating away at this land. 

3 (dated five days ago). Had to wildshape into a falcon and fly across the Lampblack to get away. Don't know who they are or why they came for me in the middle of the night. I fear for my friend, the Mayor. If he has learned the same as I have, they will be after him, too. They wear masks like mosquitoes- no, like Stirges. Those abominations... I hear their wings buzzing everywhere I go now. The masked men carry sickles and scythes. They did not cross the river in pursuit of me- fear of the ferryman's "Wolf of the Water," no doubt, but still I must be careful. Daravon, my faithful companion, worries for me. She will patrol the wood around my home tonight while I rest and tend my wounds, and then, I will report my findings to Lyila. Tired now. Need sleep. Daravon will protect me. 

The entries end there.

Armed with what you have gathered from the journal, you wander back outside and, following a theory, attempt to determine whether the holes in the ground contain poison- but you are unable to detect anything, and there seems to be no smell like the poison you found on the dead attacker's body earlier.

Both the wolf and Windmane seem anxious to leave the place- the wolf, seemingly quite fond of you, requires little convincing to come along with you back to Lyila's glade. After you swing back up into Windmane's saddle and take the reins, the wolf keeps pace just a bit behind you as  you begin the long ride back to a kinder part of the wood- to deliver the unfortunate news of Armand's fate to Lyila.

Calwen
Calwen reached the Lyila's glade visibly so visibly tired and exhausted - both physically and mentally that her typically somewhat aloof elven dignity had visible scratches. "I hope you like this place and don't confuse nixies for prey, Daravon. You're the shining sparkle of hope in this story so far." she whispered to the she-wolf as she reached it. "Both your and Armands compassion make you the heroes of it. I will pick up where Armand left, all his efforts will not be in vain." It was a human sentiment to say that his death would not be in vain. Calwen didn't like it. It's what we do with out lives that makes them meaningful, but to glorify death would be to dishonour life in her opinion. It was a bit dangerous to come back straight here in case they were followed, but Calwen hoped that Daravon would have noticed that and she was in no condition to act smart.

She went through her collection of little clues that she carried in her backpack: The mask, a sickle, a vial, some flayleaf (note to self: don't get caught with it), a sickle, a bit of the webbing in which Armand was wrapped, the most sacred part, Armands notebook. She couldn't show that to Lyila, because, well, there was no reason to mention Armand's most understandable obsession with her again. Too bad she hadn't found out about that earlier. He may have been half-human, but he had also been an elf. The degree as far as she is concerned didn't matter: elf is elf. She might have to create a copy the relevant parts.

"Good evening, fey of the forest. I am afraid we bring dire news." she said ruefully as she reached the border of the lake. "And a plea for your help. Will you let us into your sanctuary?" She may be tired, but not that tired as to take the welcome of a fey for granted without asking for it. So much for not getting mixed up in druid matters she thought as she recalled the letter she left. Their enemies might find it, too, but there was little to find out from it other her name. But Calwen doubted they would come back to the crime scene any time soon and Armand's allies, namely the druids, deserved to learn his fate.

She let a woeful sigh. She could not stay here. This place was too tempting. If she stayed here for a night she might not have the strength to leave for a decade or two. But the forest didn't have that much time. Without even knowing it she had stripped, sat by the side of the pool and started to play - a human song often played as a requiem, she couldn't say why she picked that one, with Daravon close to her side and the evidence she found like a medicine bundle at hand.

Calwen's reflections on humans and elves in general and Armand in particular
Calwen thought about Armand as she sat by the forest lake and played a requiem for him. She hadn't known him at all, but still it felt like she owed him.

Half-human. Half-elf. A lot of "half" in there.

Many elves thought about being half-human as a terrible affliction. Humans, whose life spans were too short to have anything meaningful. Humans, who never tried to blend in with the existing and never understood to extend the world around them with their realms and to be considerate in what they changed about it, but violently recreated it to their own, temporary needs, never thinking about the future and the harm they did. Humans, who just took Avistan and did whatever they wanted with it, destroying masrvels of beauty, achievements of both nature and culture in their wake. Humans, crude, bulky, clumsy and only one step removed from orcs.

From what Calwen read in Armand's journal he had been quite obsessed with Lyila. But who could blame him? He had been an outsider, left alone. He had probably been considered to be a disgrace by the people he should have belonged to. But even though some of his thoughts may have been dark he had the sense to not hurt what was important beautiful. He didn't take what he wanted by force, but he did fight for what was beautiful. While he was left alone he put the needs of others before his own, however unfulfilled his own needs may have been.

The way Calwen saw it humans were a part of this world and the changes they forced upon the world part of what was meant to be. If she had lived during the times Thallassion she would propbably have fought them herself, but they were long part of the reality of Avistand and unlike the elves, they didn't abandon it when times got rough. Humans, which may be clumsy, but managed to achieve marvels of beauty, art and science. Humans, which stood up to the demons at the World Wound. Humans, with their sparkling compassion, which made them both the darkest villains and the most compassionate heroes. Humans, whose kisses were just as honest, and whose love was just as sincere as that of an elf might be. Humans made avistan richter, as Calwen saw it and the trick was to push them right way. As the elder they should watch over the humans and gently guide them, as difficult as that was, not fight them.

There was no disgrace in loving such a creature, the short time an elf and a human would have made it more, not less meaningful. Maybe their art and culture was at times unrefined, even sloppy, but they sparkled bright with ideas in a way that no elf could possibly keep up with, traits that were complementary, not opposing. There was no disgrace in being caught in their strong, beastial carnal drives, on the contrary, there was a simple honesty about it that elves could learn from. There was no disgrace in being a child of both peoples. Armand had not been half-anything, he had been both elf and human, for that was no contradiction. And it was a disgrace to her own people how they didn't see that, how they abandoned one of their own and thus become everything they blamed upon the humans.

She wished she would have found him earlier, she would have been able to help him. Show him that he had ad least one people. Show him how many young elven maidens secretely admired his human drive and raw power as well as his compassion. Show him that he was the hope and future of this world, not a threat. Yes, his very existance had been a threat to the purity of the elven race, but purity in this regard was not something to strive for in the first place, it was a synonym for the stagnation and the unwillingness to learn.

She would have smiled if she could while playing the flute. ''But who am I to judge as an elven woman who reveres a Taldan deity. But the Eternal Rose blooms for all indivuals... and all peoples.''

What remained now, as soon as she managed to deal with this nightmare that befell the forest, is to find Armands parents, try to learn more about him, try to learn what it had been like for his parents. His memory should be cherished and so she would learn. And, of course, tell his parents of his fate - she was not looking forward to that part, but it had to be done.

Her thoughts drifted on to her own parents and her little brother, which she always had to leave out of the business of the White Rose. Her parents, particularly her mother, was very traditional and would strongly oppose the ideas of her daughter. But she loved having intelligent, charming arguments with her mother through several nights and that would be something they could at least talk about.

So Shelyn help me.

GM
Lyila listens to you play a bit longer, watching with a quiet smile. "It's strange... though you did not know Armand, I sense that you can be trusted to avenge him. He was a good boy.  You would have liked him, I think.  The hour grows late; what will you do, brave knight?  Regardless of your choice, keep open your ears; the gift I have given you should help guide you on your way, whichever path you choose to take. Tell me, is there any other boon I might offer you to aid in your journey?  This is personal for me. Though I cannot venture from this glade, by offering you assistance, I can take solace in the thought that I have struck some obscure blow against Armand's killers."

The nixies three pop their heads up and offer: "If you want a Sargassum Fiend for a buddy, the offer's still on the table!" "They're really quite cute when you get used to their bloodlust." "Hey, don't lie to the elf! 'Cute' is not how I would describe a rampaging pile of illusion-spewing pile of walking moss as strong as a gorilla..." "Hey, that's enough! This is a serious situation.  Armand?  Blightings?  Any of that ring a bell, idiot?"

The nixies quiet down, reminded of the grim reality of their situation. Behind you, Windmane huffs and shakes his head, as if only just now realizing the braids and shells that have been tied into his lustrous mane. Nearby, the wolf Daravon sits curled up, staring off into the distance with her one eye.

Calwen
Hmmm..." made Calwen thoughtfully while she rested her hand in Daravon's dense neck fur, trying to focus on the beauty of the four fey in front of her rather than the terror behind her. To the nixies she said: '''"Folks with the word 'fiend' in the description of what they are, tend to be not very nice indeed. The power to make one who is sad smile, like you do, vastly surpasses that of any fiend, the way I see it. And I hope it remains that way... I hope you accept Daravon as a guardian for this place. She has been through a lot and is a brave fighter, but she needs a new pack and some fresh game to get back to strength. I would feel better if you kept her here with you. Do you all agree? She looked to the fey and the wolf." The glade was a relatively safe place, but probably not ultimately untouchable. Daravon would be able to help defend the fey. She turned to Lyila and lowered her voice. She did not like to talk about what was coming next: "It is very important that I tell you everything I learned. Some of it is gruesome, but should I share Armand's fate the knowledge must not get lost. Even if I fail we, the forest, the fey, the elves, those of the druids who know kindness or reason, we cannot fail."'''

Calwen started to explain in detail what she had learned, starting with the journal from which she read only the relevant passages, described the scene she found and showed her the mask and all the other evidence she had gathered.

"Be careful with that vial... there may be anything it. From poison over a contagent to the larvae of magically created parasites. I believe it's the same stuff I found on this sickle. It all looks like there is a cult at work here, a cult that affiliates with stirges, disease, parasites... I don't think they want to destroy the forest, but into a lingering, constantly dying and deeply rotten dominion under their rule. A dominion where there is no place for fey or elves or free wild animals. As for what I may need: Well... Armand wrote something about stirges. Do you know an effective way to protect myself from infections or fend of stirges or whatever is that vial if I have to? Is there a certain smell that hides me from them or is repulsive to them? What do you know about stirges? I must admit the thought frightens me. To go down in battle by the blade of the enemy is one thing, but this... is quite another." She curled up a little more and stuck close to Daravon. "... and do you know anything about that 'Dreamweaver'?"

GM
Lyila listens to your questions and gratefully takes the journal from you, flipping through its pages for a moment and smiling quietly. "Never did have a gift for poetry, did he?" she muses sadly. "In any case, let me answer your questions before I lose myself in this text."

"First, the Dreamweaver- that would be Desna, would it not? Goddess of dreams, travel, luck, the stars- I'm sure you know the one.  One of the oldest and least-irritating of all deities. Is Ravenmoor a Desnan village? That would make the strange events surrounding the place even more unusual..."

"Worry not for Daravon. She is a fine creature, brave and true, and she will be cared for well here- and will care for us, too, no doubt. I am sure that her presence will be pleasing to my nixie sisters, as well..."  The nixies all nod in solemn agreement. "Besides, aside from this journal, Daravon is all I have left of fair Armand now. I will do everything within my power to ensure her continued well-being."

Lyila holds out a hand to take the vial from you and stares at it for a while, then pulls the stopper long enough to take a whiff. She cringes. "Ugh. Blue Whinnis concentrate.  It's a mould- toxic, but not dangerous in its natural form.  An expert poisoner must have created this awful stuff.  A dose this concentrated would, upon injury, sap one's very constitution over time- but, perhaps more dangerous, it would render one unconscious, perhaps for hours."  She sighs. "It seems that whatever force Armand disturbed out there- your cult, if your theory is correct- knows quite well what it is doing, at least when it comes to these things. They would have an herbalist among their ranks, no doubt.  Step carefully, dear elf." '''

"And then there are Stirges- odd creatures, those. Magical beasts, they are- spawned from and drawn to areas with latent magical auras, provided the climate is in their favor.  They are not insects, though many mistake them for overgrown mosquitoes; they are not evil, of course, their minds are far too simple for that.  They do, however, tend to carry disease.  I do wish I had some item of worth to give to you in order to prevent any possible infection you might incur from a Stirge-wound, but such things are beyond my power..."

One of the nixies pops a hand into the air and waves. '''"Ooh! Ooh!  Lady Lyila, I know of a thing!" "Right, right! Remember when that wizard got lost in the woods and got eaten by a Peryton?" "Yeah, I do! We probably should have tried to save that guy..." "Well, we saved his gear, at least! He had a periapt of health or something, didn't he?" "It was kind of cracked up, though. It didn't work properly." "But it'd help, right? Lady Lyila?"'''

Lyila nods thankfully. The nixies dive into the pool and disappear, only to return several minutes later- and one of them presents to you a beautiful pale blue gem on a silver chain, though its surface is marred somewhat by a jagged crack in the gem.

"It might not make you completely immune to diseases or poisons, but I think it'll help you shake off their effects. Try it on!"

Assuming you do...

"This bauble is not guaranteed to protect your life," Lyila says, "though it does bring me a shade of comfort. Perhaps a visit to 'civilization'- the lands of man, I mean- might be in order, to acquire some alchemical remedies that might come in handy should an infection occur. The best defense, however, is undoubtedly to keep your sword sharp and your senses sharper."

Calwen
"Desna, of course. I wasn't aware of the title 'Dreamweaver'." she admitted sheepishly "Desna, whose stars glow most beautiful in the sky over the frozen plains of Irrisen, reminding everyone that there is beauty and hope in every darkness."

If stirges were just mindless beasts that followed their own instincts, they were victims of this manipulation that took place here as much as any wild creature of the forest. Not that that would help her if they were after her.

She responded with a smile as the nixies offered her the necklace with the periapt, pulled her hair up, leaned forward and offered them to put it around her neck. The first thing you tell everyone about dealing with fey is not to accept gifts from them, unless you give an equal gift back. came a warning voice from inside her. I love those fey and they can do whatever they want with me. she sent back into the depth of her mind, where the warning came from. ''You wish. Loving another and being horny is not the same thing. Remember the White Rose. Remember Galeth.''

She became very aware that her reasonable-she was indeed right. While the curled up way in which she was sitting hid the worst signs, it was plainly visible to the fey and could be smelled by Daravon that she was indeed aroused. Her otherwise placid, noble features became red with blazing shame. Maybe taking her clothes off had not been such a good idea after all. She noticed the resemblance of a snicker from Windmane through their empathic link.

"I..." she cleared her throat to get rid of that breathy voice. "I thank you." She indicated blowing a kiss to the three nixies, ran her fingertips along the periapt and stood up. "I hope you forgive my abruptness, but I better leave now." and added with shamefully lowered head, half talking to herself, "Otherwise my feelings may make me forget my duties..." You took a gift from them, offer them something in return. reasonable-she started to become annoying. "When all of this is over and I still can, I will gladly come back to you. I would love to invent a meaningful dance for three nixies and elf. And a song for Galeth and Lyila." Who knows, maybe Lyila would like the idea of a ménage à t... started her more-affected-she but was interrupted by reasonable-she ''Stop that line of thinking at once and think about those you care about since longer than this morning! You're a knight for the love of Shelyn!''

Hastily she started to saddle Windmane. You might wanna get dressed before you leave came another frustrated grumble from the back of her mind. For a moment she focused only on what she was doing and shut everything out. When she was ready she mounted Windmane. '"I am so very sorry to leave you. Remain vigilant... if I was observed they will likely come in swarms. Don't take them up front, delay them and terrorize them as soon as you can and call for any aid you can and call in every favour. It is vital that you notice and engage them as soon as anyhow possible in order to buy time and make them realize that they are the hunted, not the hunters. Show no mercy, unless you are sure'' that it will not be taken advantage of. I mean... I suppose you know how to defend your own glade, but I am a knight and this may have to do more with warfare than usual; Galeth knows at least as much about tactics as I do, he might help. Armands report mentions no ranged weapons, so ambushes with archers might help. Remember, the strength of everything that is good is not that we were more powerful than our enemies, it would be a fatal mistake to believe that, but that we stick together and make sacrifices for one another. You might not be able to charm them, they will likely expect that. Guard them well for me, Daravon. Goodbye!"'''

And thus Windmane and Calwen left for Ravenmoor.

GM
"Fear not, for Daravon will watch over this place," Lyila assures you. "And, if need be, I know of a few centaurs who owe me a favor, and would no doubt be willing to patrol the area should I ask. Whatever steps you choose to make next, take them cautiously.  Godspeed, Knight of the White Rose."  She blows you a kiss and bids you farewell. The nixies three wave goodbye and seem genuinely saddened to see you go.

Though the temptation to stay was indeed great, after a few moments, you and Windmane leave the peaceful glade behind you.

Calwen
Calwen felt a little silly as she looked at the birch. Tree-huggers. That was what the humans called them. Well, she did not normally hug trees, unless in a failed attempt to climb them, but she was about to talk to one.

She sighed. One did not have to be an expert to realize that the tree was not well. The entire forest was... whatever it was, but not as it was supposed to. "Hello. I... am an elf. A biped. My name is Calwen. Do you know what an elf is? One of the kind that walks around and talks. Sometimes to dryads. You do know what a dryad is, don't you? I am a friend of Lyila, a spirit who belongs to a majestic oak, not far from here, to the w... the direction where the sun goes down. Where the light shows last before it disappears in the evening, I mean."

She could feel that Windmane was highly puzzled by the situation, since he did not understand who she was communicating with. Possibly with no one at all. She dug her hunting knife out of her backpack and cut herself carefully in the left palm. Then she bend down, tried to find a root that belonged to the birch and dropped the blood on it.

"Here, that's my resin. I am trying to find out why so many trees are not well around here. Whatever is affecting you, from where does it come? The air? Your roots? Is it all around you? Did you notice a group of unusual bipeds lately, namely humans?"

GM
The voice of the wood is barely coherent; though the dryad's spell translates their words into your language, it is more like a collection of thoughts and observations that only tangentially resembles traditional speech patterns.

''Two-legs offers its sap to us. It speaks of the inside-death. The inside-death comes down from above, from the stars and the ones beyond the stars. It cannot be felt until it has already taken the inside of one's being and begun the death. It devours the all and delivers it back to the original state, the non-existence. This is the wanting of the ones beyond the beyonds. The other two-legs, the one that looked like this one, spilled the sap of the others and danced upon their ruin. Then came the inside-death, upon us and upon the ground and the fey-friends. This one claims friendship with the Lyila, so it is a friend to the green as well. It shall find the answers it seeks in the moor with the ravens. The others coming will find their answers there as well. They dally in the lake-town before they come to the wood and to the moor. Then they all will find the rest of the questions. It has more sap for the us?''

Calwen
"Not much more, I am afraid, I depend on it live.I can't give you any substantial amount." Carefully she squeezed out a few more drops of bloods. "The one that looked like me and killed many others and danced upon their ruin, could you give me a stronger impression of that one?"

GM
The strange voice of the surrounding flora continues to float around you as if carried upon the wind.

''This is long time ago, many man-lifes, not as many elf-lifes or tree-lifes. Two-legs that looked like this one looked very much like this one, less of tall, but still doing well with the men-things. Black cloths of wear, head-leaves of black and hang to ground. Always smiling but not of the happy. Alone but for when time of dancing comes. Speaks only to the ones behind the stars and to the insects. Words come out like profanities and secret wicked things. Sometimes two-leg men come from other places to speak to this one, and it dances with them and sends them away knowing things of secret Sometimes brothers in green talk of her in north places, sometimes in south places. Stays away from fey-places, does not dance when fey are near. Sometimes kill ones who see or hear or talk of. Two-legs that looks like this one still dancing, unless ran out of sap and stopped existing since last. Maybe turn black and inside-death like tree-brothers do.''

The wind rustles through the trees as they grow silent, seemingly having nothing else to say on the matter.

GM
As you start to head back toward Windmane, a breeze whips through the wood around you, blowing loose, dry leaves about your ears. The voice of the wood whispers to you:

'The others coming to the moor to find a missing one near now. This one should hide should wish to avoid; should ride on beast to meet if choose do that. Brothers and sisters near moor anxious now. Bad wind blowing.'

'Other two-legs walking near today as well, come from inside wood, from places where dead brothers and sisters are. Bad minds and not friends of wood or fey. Walking meats with bad means and desire things peoples carry. Ride safe if going near, two-legs, for their eyes see far.'

You can't see or quite hear anyone, but you get a feeling as if there is someone nearby, moving through the wood toward the road; perhaps the "bad minds" the voice of the wood spoke of?

Calwen
Calwen is riding Windmane as she hears the whispers of the forest and decides to play it open. She wants the cooperation of the strangers, if they notice her watching them that would make things more difficult, even though she would prefer some knowledge on the new arrivals. Playing it open is also the more noble thing to do; while her missions often include a certain level of subtlety, she will not hide for what she stands.

As she notices something odd, yet elusive and indiscernible, she takes the shield from her back and straps it to her arm as she looks around and pays attention to Windmane's reactions. Do you smell anything? She draws long sword, which is remarkable massive for an elven work of art, and signals Windmane with her thighs to speed up a little. If they are on foot the tactical advantage will be hers on the road, but she must not stray from it.

GM
Windmane snorts nervously as you strap on your shield and draw your sword. Unsure of the origin of the strange sensation, you keep on guard as you make your way through to the edge of the Churlwood. By late afternoon you feel that the road is near; the whispers of the trees assure you that those you seek to meet are near.

Finally, you see the break in the treeline and hear the strumming of some instrument coming from beyond, and a man's husky voice sings a solemn tune.