Children of Terra

~1 February 999~ ~In the quiet house~ ~Outskirt of Ghelibol~ ~Pruflas~ The duke had sequestered himself in his once-house since that day, and the townspeople grew antsy. They requested guards to conduct a well-check, to see what might trouble the witchers. After all, it'd been a month and half again, with fishermen reporting drowners haranguing about the frozen river. More disturbing was some kind of hellfire scar to the north of Ghelibol. What manner of monster could summon such infernal fire?       So, a handful of the bridge guards went to knock upon the door of the witcher pair. When the duke opened the door, immediately the guards were taken back by the rings under his eyes. Witchers got tired? The front guard spoke, "Hail, witchman. We knock to see your health. There have been troubles around, the kind you specialize in?"       "Yes. My apologies for the delays. I must speak with the ealdorman; I think it's time I go."       The duke looked them each in the eyes, but something felt off. Why was there no fire in the hearth? "Where is the woman? She should be birthing soon. Do you have a midwife ready? I can - "       "No, Svelan. I have it taken care of. Aen Seidhe have their own connections. Farewell; today will likely be my last here." With a pat on the shoulders and wave to the guards, Pruflas made for the ealdorman's house.       The boy was smiling when he saw the elf-witcher walking up. He raised a hand to clasp with the man, but the monster slayer instead gripped his shoulder. His eyes were heavy, the boy instinctively tensing. When the slayer held a hand out, the boy's heart skipped a beat; but in the hand was a small stone, prismatic and dazzling. The boy awed at it, grabbing it.       "What is it, master witcher?"       "A bless-stone. Bury it in the yard tonight, and the drowners will leave the town alone come next sunrise. Don't forget, lad."       The boy looked at the stone a while longer, noting the warmth and calm it exuded. It - it almost had the same hue as that elf-woman's eyes . . . Before the boy could ask further, the duke was gone to inside the ealdorman's house.       Pruflas looked around the humble abode. Many of the wooden walls were visibly split and let air in, and a general clutter about the place; pots, pans, utensils in places they shouldn't be. Hearing commotion, the ealdorman walked around the corner to find the duke.       "Ah, witcher! I have some things to ask of you. About sightings around the town. But let's at you first. What have you been? People were complaining about your absences."       "We need move on, sire. There are many towns, many people out there. I left a gift to the boy, it should help with the drowners."       The ealdorman looked wistful, but nodded. "Is it coin?"       "No, elder. You have been more than kind to us. It is simply time."       "So be it. But before you go, there have been witnesses about the north, some fearsome monster that scorched the woods . . . Could you . . . ?"       "Precisely why I must go, ealdorman. I have the track of this monster, and I intend to slay it. Fear not, it's trail leads away. I go to follow. If that is all?"       "You speak most unusually, master witcher. Are you not expecting soon? Won't you stay for that at least?"       Pruflas had already turned to leave, but he stopped in the doorway speaking over his shoulder. "Thank you, ealdorman. For the housing." And out the duke walked.       The boy stepped inside, watching the duke leave Ghelibol before turning and speaking to the village head. "What happened, do you think father?"       "I can't say for sure, Fador. But I've heard witchmen are . . . barren. The child probably stillborn." ~Back along the Nimnar frozen~ ~The lone duke~ Pruflas headed down the frozen river, and made to the grave of his Metile -- and their child. There's no point retracing back south on the Nimnar: it fed from the Kestrel range. New lands would be to the north. Before that, he wanted to say his partings to the demonette.       The clearing where he found them was burnt thoroughly. A pyre of his doing. Snow had since covered it in the months gone -- but the unmistakable scorch remained. He knelt in the center, placing his hands flat on the ground, taking his memory back to the moment. There it was again, a haunting spectre of the warmth. So like how he remembered, but it wasn't the same. It would never be the same.       From within his winter jacket he pulled Metile's dagger. It looked clean to humans, but Pruflas could still see the miasma of Gaap wick off it. She managed to cut him. And that was all he needed. He sheathed it before standing again.       "I'm leaving, Mettie. My child. And will likely never come back. No one will remember your grave here, and I wish it so for eternity. Rest in peace, my love."       The silence was his reply. Despite his deep turmoil, he knew that was for the best. He breathed in one last time of the clearing, hoping for just one mote before setting off north along the river Nimnar. ~4 February 999~ ~River confluence~ ~Lands north of Ghelibol~ ~Demon~ He broke camp again on the bank of a flux. A much grander river flowed east-westward, which Pruflas knew from his studies in Ghelibol as the river Buina. The main reason why he opted to follow the river is to find other life than city-dwelling humans -- humans being of least help in finding a way back to Terra. They could barely manage a portal to summon one demon, let alone a cross-way between worlds. He needed to find the ancient races, or at least a scholar well-connected.       Upon dispelling the wards, he found himself surrounded by pointed eared folk. They were armed in the manner of skirmishers: light, leathery, small bows. Wood-folk. And many had appeared roughly readied for him. One had a blade in hand, reverse grip; upon noticing the appearance of Pruflas, gestured and spoke.       "Pwy wyt ti i ddod i'r caed uniade?"       Another dialect. Pruflas closed his eyes and prepared for the rigamarole. At least he didn't have to go very far outside a human settlement, he supposed. "You wouldn't happen to understand this one?"       The kneeling one cocked a head and looked aside. "Ydy e'n aen elle?"       Another nearby gestured, bow in hands. "Dwi ddim yn meddwl hynny. Mae o'n frîd cymysg. Dannedd pigfain, llygaid anghenfil, gormod o gyhyr."       Pruflas regarded the elves with a forced calm. He didn't want to move and dispel the illusion of vulnerability, so he counted as best he could how many there were without turning. At least fifteen in front.       "Hmm. Ti'n iawn, mae'n bygwth yr afon." The kneeling one stood and tensed.       Pruflas caught that word. Afon. Occidental Albionic. Siluren dialect? We're by a river . . . Before he could try a prodding defense, he heard the twinging of a nocked arrow behind. He tensed his body and hurled aside; using thaumaturgic wind to blast his way.       He pirouetted through the air with arrow-whistle past him, one hand conjuring permafrost from the ground as a wide-area cloud dispersal. A shout rang out, "Dewin! Ffieidd-dra!" Ah, it was Siluren. They were calling him a mage-abomination. He smiled as he hid behind a tree; arrows 'thwok-ing' in the bark shielding him.       Yet another similarity to Terra. The implications set on Pruflas, but now simply wasn't the time to delve into academics. He shouted from behind the tree, "Stop, you mad Aen Seidhe! I awake groggy and disoriented, and you fly to such rage! Stand down!"       A voice called from beyond the dirt cloud in the area, "You would know you are not welcome here, abominable half-breed! You must die to preserve the sanctity of the Merged Forest!"       Pruflas audibly growled before he replied, "I will kill the unfortunate that try and stop me! Stand down and bring this to words, lest I leave you for maggots!"       No reply. The duke made to change location, suffusing his surrounding in magia; causing pebbles to encircle him. Out of a bush to his right an elf burst out, bow taut and arrow just loosed. Another behind him from the sound. The vision-periphery showed a third breaking bush to rush him, dagger-glint shining.       He dropped flat, gathering magia in his hands in that moment. As the archer in front was curling into a roll, nocking another arrow -- and the dagger wielder closing in -- Pruflas slammed his palms flat into the ground. Arrows whizzed just over him as the snow-soil undulated and began upheaving, the dagger-elf thrown back, archers destabilized.       In that moment of confusion, Pruflas locked eyes with the archer in front of him, and clapped his hands. Another arrow from behind. Right as it made impact, a distinct 'POP' rang out.       Within the half-moment, the elves saw one of their own suddenly transplanted with the mutant. His gurgles as the arrow sunk half into neck provided pause. No portal? Did the maddened mages of the Brotherhood finally create an abomination? The eyes matched . . .       Pruflas seized initiative, calling out from the edge of the clearing: "I can likely save him. Stand down you maddened dogs, accept I fight only in self-preservation!"       Many of the elves shuffled about, turmoil at play. One decided to speak, "Save him."       The duke didn't hesitate, breaking concealment to rush to the elf. Must've been a leader or central figure to cause such disruption. He felt the air around him with bated hostility, held back by only this moment. Kneeling, he looked into the elf's eyes, bright green and confused through choking labors.       "Didn't pierce the sieves nor the spine. Might lose his voice, but it's doable." Pruflas breathed out and put one hand on the arrow shaft, other hovering over the neck. With naturalis in the right hand, he severed the arrow head from the shaft -- yanking in one motion. Blood flew from the neck. The left hand immediately clamped with gathered magia and filled the wound.       The right hand threw the arrow to the side and came around to the other side of the neck, both ends now sealed with magia. The wounded elf began to cough and sputter, trying to wrench the duke off him. He was flailing around while Pruflas fought to keep his neck clamped. Elves began to advance, frightened.       Pruflas shouted out, not turning from the elf: "Stand down you fools! If he was dying, he wouldn't have the vigor to flail so! I never said it was painless! Have you never seen another die?!"       After a moment, Pruflas stood up, leaving the elf hunched over -- breathing and whinging. A nearby archer roughshod pulled the duke away; who only glared in annoyance back. The elf slowly got up, spitting blood out and looking like he just got done wiping his ass with 80 grit sandpaper.       Another elf in the clearing ran to the wounded, taking his shoulder and speaking: "Aelen? Are you well?"       The wounded elf simply leaned, breathing through his nostrils along closed eyes. The supporting elf looked at the duke, "You! Trickery!" With a nod, the elf holding Pruflas drew a dagger and menaced.       Before more escalation, Aelen-the-wounded spoke out, voice garbled: " . . . no, he . . . healed." The effort clearly took its toll; Aelen visibly paled -- hunching and leaning on the one elf.       Pruflas shook off the other, adjusting his winter coat. "You're welcome, Aen Anniolchgar."       Aelen laughed from the gut, and immediately groaned -- then gritting in pain. It was this act that finally made the elves loose from the tension, glances shared. Aelen took a seat on a root bough nearby, pulling a tube and roll of parchment out. He fiddled in his belt for presumably a quill, before the attendant pulled one from his own. Lost in the scrabble.       After a moment, the beleaguered elf held the parchment up to the other, who read the words. He blanched, looking Aelen in the eyes. With a sigh, he called out, "We will harbor the mutant. Until Aelen has the strength to thank him with words." Displeasure naturally followed, but was squashed when Aelen plunged a dagger in the bough he sat on. The symbolism meant much to the elves, apparently.       The one near Pruflas spoke, "Come on, ffieiddbethau."       While the name itself was rather poignant in conveying disgust, the accent of the elves made Pruflas laugh. It was hard to take such overt drama seriously. The culture shock between the two was displayed as the elf turned back and looked at the duke in visible confusion.       Not like the Aen Seidhe could know, of course. But this marked the first time in months the duke laughed.