Neutral Ground

The bright, bell-like voice of Elexia rings in your ear, "Good afternoon, Rhalkyr - If you were
able, I am ready to speak with you in person. I've just finished a collection I've been chipping
away at, and so find myself with ample time indeed."

You think to yourself: A flicker of something - Interest, perhaps, curiosity? A slight fascination,
at the very most.

You tell Elexia Myeras-Silvermoon, "**A lengthy silence, the shroud of darkness thicker, darker than
before. After a time, however, the ragged bass of his voice sounds out, albeit a touch less
lively.** Am, able. Where, to meet?"

The bright, bell-like voice of Elexia rings in your ear, "Have you heard of the Caoimhe Del? A place
where the Wydyr Glade resides, and the descendants of Ellindel keep their path with Night. A place
of import to both our peoples, near the Shallach River."

The bright, bell-like voice of Elexia rings in your ear, "Their pact of old, held every night of the
Full Moon." Her voice trails off, thoughtfully. "If you desire, you may come upon the aether strands
to me.""

You tell Elexia Myeras-Silvermoon, "Have heard, only, from, your letters." His voice, too, lapses
into silence, but this stretches on."

Base of a weathered and ancient oak.
The area is bathed with sterling light as an aura of warmth and wellness emanates from a healing
shrine of Lisaera nearby. A thick cover of clouds obscures the sky in a sheet of dense white. Rising
majestically above the tops of all other trees is the tallest oak in the area, its weathered
branches reaching in all directions as if greeting the sky. Thick bark covers the tree's massive
trunk, a natural layer of protection against the harshness of nature. Dropped from a trapdoor within
the wooden platform high over head, hangs a neatly knotted hemp rope and wood plank ladder fixed
securely to the roots of the tree. Patches of moss dapple the tree's exterior, growing thickest on
the roots and trunk facing north. An oak sapling clings tenaciously to the ground here. Elexia
Myeras-Silvermoon stands surrounded by a wild fragrance, flickering images of wildflowers shimmering
about her body. She wields a rose-vine violin in her left hand and a little acorn cup in her right
hand.
You see exits leading north, southeast, and up.
-

She is a nimble faeling blossoming demigoddess and reaches about one and a half feet in height. Her
skin is pale as the luminescent moon, almost shining in its lustre. Atop her head sits a fountain of
silky night-hued hair. The locks flow through a simple lilac ribbon on the back of her head before
cascading like a waterfall down to her waist. Beneath the ebony tresses sits a heart-shaped face
dominated by a pair of striking violet eyes. Long ears tapered to a fine point poke out through her
sable hair on either side of her head. Black as a starless night sky, a pair of delicate butterfly
wings sprout from her shoulders. When fanned to their fullest, the wings overtake her outstretched
arms in their size. Her frame is slender and petite, with svelte legs ending in dainty little loam-
dusted feet. Whether walking or flying, she glides about with energetic and almost erratic
movements. Tattooed on her arms is an illustration of fae amidst flowers and fallen petals. A lush
fragrance dances about her as she stands awash in the wild, prismatic colours of a truefavour from
Maylea, Bloom of Serenity.

Her sheer, sable hair is smooth and glossy, with long, even bangs. Her hair falls nearly to her
waist in a silky curtain, perfectly straight and even.
She is wearing:
a translucent crystal bindi shimmering gently in prismatic colour upon her forehead
a rainbow flower brooch upon her sari
a satchel of turning seasons slung about her right shoulder
a reflective mark of Serenity about her neck on a simple chain
a fragile apple blossom hair pin tucked amidst her sable locks
an ethereal bluebell earring through her left ear
an ethereal bluebell earring through her right ear
a bewitching violet and lavender silk sari woven with vespertine lace about her petite frame
an anklet of twining roses about her right ankle
the Flame of dae'Seren bound to her upper right arm by its chain
elbow-length gloves of lavender satin
a cloak adorned with silk butterflies wrapped about her shoulders.

Of a diminutive stature even for a faeling, Elexia nonetheless stands as tall as she is able at her
height of one and a half feet. Her violet eyes settle upon you, immediately finding your own green.
"Winter's tidings," she chimes as she dips her head. Behind her, sable butterfly wings fan open and
closed with an idle, but persistent rhythm. Rather than hover, the faeling has elected to keep her
two bare feet upon the loam of the dell for the moment.

Prowling in on light, feline steps, Rhalkyr slips from shadow to shadow, the
stripes painted upon his form blending with the shade that dapples him in rippling bands of black -
Yet not seamlessly enough, as he discovers when his eyes meet Elexia's. Slowing, he angles his head
first to one side, then the other, drifting off to Elexia's left in an unhurried, liquid gait. He
rolls his immense shoulders idly as he studies Elexia, the violently intense green of his eyes
unwavering from her. "Yes." Gesturing at the sari, and then flicking a finger to the gloves, he
rumbles, "Why, those?"

Elexia cants her head, her hand rising beneath her chin as she studies you in kind. "I've oft had a
penchant for saris," she replies with a gentle shrug of her shoulders. "I had not seen this design
before, and found its colours charming. As for the gloves..." She gestures to the air aimlessly. "I
tend to go without this sort of apparel, but ah - there's a particular chill in the air this
winter's day. Do you disagree?" Her smile does not meet her eyes as she watches you. Her eyes glance
about your shoulders, as if perhaps she might be seeking something. Her brow knits together - but
only for a moment.

Whether he smiles or not is difficult to discern, given the predatory mask that
hides all but his eyes - but even these prove to show no trace of humour, and as little in the way
of warmth as the fell wind that seeks to snatch heat from flesh. Cocking his head at the brief
frown, Rhalkyr's attention flits down to the sari, and then he lets out a soft, faintly amused
grunt. "Did not, forget." Reaching beneath the violet blanket that is wrapped about his waist, he
withdraws a neatly folded, familiar garment. Deftly undoing the ties that fasten it closed, the
cloak unfurls in a tumble of autumnal hues, which he holds up in a demonstrative fashion, before
swirling it about his vast shoulders. This done, he holds his hand aloft, and brings its mate up to
tap a blunt finger upon the ring he wears.

As you lifts the blanket, Elexia's eyes narrow alertly once more. They roam over the cloak, but
quickly move past it as if attempting to seek out a threat. Whatever they might have been looking
for, the faeling's eyes meet your once more. Her not-quite-smile returns as she dips her head in a
simple nod. "Ah, you didn't, I had been wondering if you might have," she replies. Again, the hand
rises beneath the chin, and she glanes at you critically. In a sudden burst of movement, her sable
wings spring to life and carry the faeling skywards. She adjusts her altitude upon the winds until
she is able to look levelly at you. "You are curious indeed. You speak aloud different than you
write. I wonder, where did you learn to write as you do in your letters?" Her pointed ears twitch,
and fragments of her attempt to conceal her expression give way to a natural curiousity.

In contrast to Elexia's wariness, Rhalkyr seems entirely relaxed, motionless save
for the drift and flick of the cloak that shrouds his torso - the hues of which prove an able
compliment to the bronze of his skin, and the dark gold of his hair. All of this changes, however,
the moment Elexia leaps into motion. The sudden flurry of wings causes him to jerk forward a single
step, his hands snapping up - only to freeze in place, in the midst of a grasping motion, his eyes
wide and alive with hunger, as every visible muscle of his huge frame twitches in a spasming ripple
of suppressed violence. With obvious effort, he forces his hands back down beneath the cloak, though
the tendons of his neck stand out like taut bowstrings, drawn beneath his flesh. In a strained,
cracking voice, he grinds out, "Move, slow. Please."

As soon as your hands rise up, Elexia's violin leaves its place strapped about her back and is in
her hands. Her bow rests lightly along the strings as her violet eyes narrow and a streak of fiery
red laces through the sable expanse of her wings like arcing lightning. A frigid glare consumes her
mien, but as you explains, her brow furrows once more in puzzlement. Slowly, reluctantly, she lets
the hand which wields her bow - her left - falls to her side. The violin remains raised upon her
shoulder as she warns, "See that you control yourself." A pause as her violet eyes search your own
green. "I will seek not to startle you, then, that I need not turn my bow against you. Your wood is
full of faelings, is it not?"

A deep, rippling noise reverberates from Rhalkyr's cavernous chest - a ragged,
shuddering bass that is nearly low enough to set the air to trembling, though whether it signifies a
warning, pleasure, or amusement, is unclear. Cocking his head to one side in an animalistic gesture,
his voice is mild, if faintly puzzled, "Did. Not, eaten, yes?" With a brief rise and fall of his
mountainous shoulders, he shrugs, sinking into a crouch. Visibly relaxing, he drapes his thick
forearms across his thighs, allowing his hands to dangle freely between them as he turns his head
aside - though the glitter of green eyes remain fixed upon those of violet. "Faeling, of home, know,
to move, slow." Tilting his chin towards Elexia, a glimmer of amusement shines in his gaze, as he
observes, "Very, wary. Cold. Not, as warm, as letters." A pause, in which his head cants in the
opposite direction. "Pity."

Elexia does not appear to share in your humor as she dips her head in a nod. "It is only natural,
aye? For one's disposition towards another to shift as they learn and speak more. For instance..."
Her eyes look to your hands as she returns her violin to its strap. "Every action a consequence,
every word, an effect." At last, her wary smile reasserts itself upon her features. Her violet eyes
flick up and down you as she muses, "This does not mean that we can speak on civil terms, of course.
You remind me of someone. Have you perchance met a shard by the name of Esei in the dark wood?"

The two foremost fingers of Rhalkyr's right hand begin to beat a steady, marching
beat upon the curve of his knee as he listens to Elexia, patient as a hunting cat. His eyes never
leave Elexia's, though he shifts his head languidly this way and that, and the nearly lambent green
discs are equally as unfaltering in their intensity as he watches Elexia. "Have met, yes." The sharp
one-two rhythm of his blunt fingertips impacting upon hard bone continues unabated as his other hand
lowers to draw lazy circles at his feet. "Why?"

You think to yourself: So wary a thing, without the screen of parchment and the shelter of distance
to keep her safe. It is good, in his estimation, to see that her bite does not extend simply to her
words. This, though, is the second time she has mentioned that he reminds her of someone. Could it
be the beloved Warden? He cannot see the similarities, if so - The Warden is many times his better,
in equally as many ways.

There is a raise of Elexia's eyebrows in recognition as she nods once more. "You remind me of them,"
she responds matter-of-factly, as if this was significant indeed to the faeling. When she next
speaks, there is a mix of emotions in her voice - the same vigilant watchfulness, but also something
approaching fondness or at least familiarity. "We've spoken for years. Tense and wary, aye, and
yet..." The faeling trails off as she shrugs her shoulders once more. "Still we speak," she finishes
with a wave of her hand. For a brief moment, a genuine smile appears on the faeling's face, though
it passes quickly as if it were but a single beam of sunlight smothered by overcast clouds. In spite
of your warning, the faeling remains not still in the air. The winds which whip through the valley
send her bobbing gently as they go by.

A soft, chuffing sound, the muted burst of air bearing mirth upon it, though what
warmth his breath expels is soon snatched away by the grasping, avaricious fingers of the chill
winds. Jutting his chin towards Elexia, Rhalkyr remarks, "Met, their wife, today. Flitted, about,
more, than you." The frigid gale snaps his cloak out like a wavering banner of flame, flicking and
curling about in sharp jerks and smooth flows by turns. They have no success, however, in so much as
making the hulking figure himself sway from where he crouches, his eyes tracking the path that the
winds bat Elexia along. He regards her at length, and then seems to come to a decision. Falling back
into a cross-legged position, he places his hands under his knees, so that the fingers grasp firmly
about his ankles. Jerking his chin up and back, he says, "Land. Shelter, behind. Will, screen, wind.
Bobbing, like, thistledown."

Again, it is curiosity which manages to overcome Elexia's veil. Her eyebrows raise and an
inquisitive spark flares in her violet eyes. "My, had they told me they were married?" the faeling
muses in an undirected manner as she taps her chin with a slender finger in thought. Her brow
furrows once more - but this time, in recollection. "I do recall that they were courting someone..."
This she murmurs more quietly to herself. She is wrenched from these thoughts by your offer, and for
the first time a bit of amusement crosses her own mien. "'Tis but another day as any other to be
faeling," she replies, a sing-song quality entering her tone. Nevertheless, she appears to be
considering accepting as she glances up at the shaking boughs all around. Eventually she relents,
her sable wings losing vigour with every subsequent beat as she is lowered to the ground. As soon as
her bare feet meet the loam, they fold behind her in an effort to further protect them from the
winds. She steps in the windbreak you had extended. "My thanks," she says sincerely as she dips her
head.

You think to yourself: Ah. So that was it. Curiosity, it seems, makes for an excellent bait indeed.
Perhaps the Silent One would have more than simply the one inquisitive faeling to call His own -
Another night blossom, plucked from an unworthy garden.


You have emoted: Again, Rhalkyr offers up silence for Elexia to fill, a quiet, watchful presence
that waits patiently for each word to be delivered, collected, stored away. He makes no response to
neither question nor absent musing, merely tilting his head slightly to his right as Elexia strives
to recollect whatever memories Elexia searches for. A flicker of something sparks to life at the
lilting manner with which Elexia speaks the third sentence, with the hulking human leaning forward
almost imperceptibly - only to fall back, the spark guttering out. He replies with a soft grunt of
acknowledgement, tapping his forefinger rapidly, but lightly, upon his knee. With almost idle
curiosity, he ask, "Why, speak, to those, of the Glomdoring?"

Elexia's violet eyes dart to watch the sudden spark of energy that briefly fills your posture. Once
more, her eyebrows rise in quiet surprise, but she makes no remark. At your question, the corner of
her lips twitch upwards. "There are many reasons," she begins, some of the edge of her tone now
dulled. "I believe it is important to hear other Perspectives. Perhaps especially those of the ones
your people call enemy." Her violet eyes flutter closed, but only for a moment. "Not to agree, of
course. Although I imagine there's aught we do agree on - sometimes the arts, or the beauty of the
heavens. Regardless, I believe it is good to hear." There is another twitch of her lips upward.
"And, sometimes, seeds sown in simple conversation can sprout in remarkable ways."

You think to yourself: Oh, they most certainly can, little songbird, they most /certainly/ can.

Untroubled by the howling wind that claws at his broad frame, or perhaps simply
unwilling to display such, Rhalkyr lifts his hand to rest his chin atop the craggy, brutish jut of
his knuckles, eyes lidding slowly closed in an almost benign fashion. Blinking them open after but
the merest sliver of a moment, their corners crinkle within the shadowed recesses of his fearsome
mask, amusement glittering within the vividly green discs. "Yes. Agree, on, that much." Tilting his
head lazily to the opposite side, he asks, conversationally, "Have, mate?"

This question elicits a proper smile from Elexia that she makes no effort to restrain. It is bright,
and filled with radiant warmth. "Yes, my Pysynne," she says, the warmth spilling over into her tone.
"We are still unwed, but engaged to be so - Soon, I am seeking, once we've passed the Hall of
Record's threshold for recognizing such." The faeling nods in a self-satisfied fashion. Then, there
is a slight tilt to her head as she ventures, "And yourself? I know the Portal's Trial was still
fairly recent for you, but ah, I've seen some youthful shards yet find their partners early now and
again." There is a hint of amusement in her own tone, along with a degree of wistfulness.

You think to yourself: In the warm, bright tones of the faeling before him, "My Pysynne." Over, and
over, in a fading echo.

The warmth finds no echo in Rhalkyr's masked countenance, with not so much as a
flickering spark coaxed to life within the glinting green of his ceaseless stare. In a voice as soft
as ragged, torn velvet, he murmurs, "Love, is, very fine. Hope, they will, not, mistreat. Hearts,
can be, inconstant, yes?" A mild lift of a single, titanic shoulder drags the autumnal cloak up and
down as surely as the prow of a boat born upon an unhappy sea. His answer, by contract, is a flat,
"No."

Elexia's smile dips into a thoughtful frown as her violet eyes first meet your ceaseless stare, then
are briefly distracted by the movement of the cloak. "If not yet, then perhaps another day. You are
young yet," she replies, punctuating the statement with a firm nod. "It is true, that all shards
grow and change with time and experience," she admits. "But certain things can remain firm. Long-
lasting indeed, as I have seen. I have faith that it will be well." Again, the head bobs in a silent
statement of emphasis. Switching topics, she instead inquires, "Have you made much progress with
your written works? I've been occupied by similar pursuits, these past few Moons."

Rhalkyr's hand drifts up, then aside, as if brushing the matter aside, to better
focus upon that which is of more interest. In an easy, amiable fashion, he replies with a casual,
"Certain, things, yes." In contrast to the ready manner in which Elexia's head bobs and dips
throughout the conversation, his own rests, unmoving, upon the harsh, unforgiving range of his
knuckles, the only motion he provides lying in the slow rise and fall of his chest. Even his speech
betrays not a flicker of movement, shrouded behind the toothsome mask as his mouth is, so that he
seems like nothing so much as a possessed statue, forged from bronze and daubed in black. "Little.
Focusing, on other, matters. Welcoming, recent, transplant." This last is spoken as conversationally
as all the rest, but there is a certain degree of increased intensity with which he watches Elexia,
betrayed by a minute widening of his eyes.

The recognition in Elexia's face is unmistakable, though she quickly moves to control her
expression. It does not seem as easy for her as before, and her eyes snap shut for three breaths
before she is able reassume her guarded frown. Even then, it is not nearly so convincing as before.
There is an increase in her posture's tension, a curling of her hands into fists. Soon, she seems to
catch this, too, and forces herself back into a relaxed stance. Even for all her efforts, there is a
shift across the ebony expanse of her wings. Like a drop of ink spilled into water, mournful blues
erupts and spread. "Is that so," is all she offers as reply.

You think to yourself: Ah. A connection there, as expected. Let us see how we might tug at the
heartstrings, with this little strand of sorrow.

Finally, motion. He shifts, a gradual, subtle adjustment of his weight,
transferring it from his right side, to his center, slow as the turning of the season. His head
lowers with an equal lack of hurry, until his eyes are level with Elexia's, masked face tilted
curiously aside. Rhalkyr's left hand slides to the earth on Elexia's right, a brutal finger
extending to draw loose, lazy circles in the ground. Idly, he inquires, "Is so. Illyria. Know, her?"
Still, the painfully slow increase in the intensity of his regard, as gradual as a steel string
being drawn tighter, and tigher, and tighter, until it nearly sings with trembling tension.

Again, Elexia's eyelids sink shut long before she replies. Of its own accord, her hand drifts up to
a reflective mark of Serenity which hangs about her neck from a simple chain. She twists it to the
right, and then to the left, and then releases it to return her hand slowly, forcefully to her side,
as if it cost her concentration to do so. The somber blue hues now dominate her wings, until none of
the original colour remains in the filaments. Then, she inhales, a deep steadying breath, and a
sable circle forms in the center of each wing. It grows and expands, until eventually it crawls over
the edge of her wings, returning them to their original state. "I spoke with her, met her," she
replies as her violet eyes open, her voice cooler, calmer. "But I did not really know her, no."

 As Elexia's eyes lid closed, Rhalkyr's track slowly over to study the manner in
which Elexia frets at the mark, his eyes narrowing every so slightly, before they drift over to
watch Elexia's wings with a nearly palpable hunger. The languid, looping circles that he draws grow
marginally wider, their circuit bringing his fingers ever so slightly nearer to Elexia as he
watches, unhurried. As ebon once again bleeds forth to dominate the delicate wings, the violent
green of his eyes slips back to Elexia's face. Quietly, the ragged, splintering quality of his voice
rendering the words difficult to pick apart, at first, he murmurs, "You, are sad."

Elexia allows the statement to hang in the air, her violet eyes looking back at your with a hint of
defiance. "Aye," she replies coolly. "I am." For once, she does not elect to elaborate, instead
choosing to ask, "Is she settling in well, then?" Beneath the iciness of her tone, there is
something more. A sincere curiosity, a quiet care.

The ever-ratcheting, trembling tension of his regard abruptly collapses as he lifts
his head back a span, uttering a slow, thoughtful rumble that sets the rippling folds of his cloak
to shivering. In a voice that is gentle, genuine in its benevolence, Rhalkyr says, "Yes. Fed her,
myself. Is fond, of quiet, places. Has found, her home. Some, flowers, bloom best, at night." The
motions of his left hand grow still, so that his splayed fingers rest upon the ground, even as he
shifts his right to extend it towards Elexia, fingers curled loosely inwards - upon one of which
gleams a ring of bronze, inset with ruby. Pausing, the great paw hovers in the air a respectful
distance from Elexia's face. "Will not, hurt."

A storm of conflicting emotions crosses Elexia's face, somehow an incongruous mix of relief and
disappointment. But, she nods gratefully to you, replying with a simple, "Thank you." Her eyes rise
to the heavens, where the dusk has settled upon the world like a blanket woven with warm colours.
Her eyes spy the nescient Moon, a last quarter, rising high into the sky. "It is nearing time for my
meditations, so I believe I shall wing back to the wood," she chimes as her gaze returns to your
green eyes. "Until we meet again, Rhalkyr. May your Tah'vrai be just."

A wild boar snorts and paws at the ground, a wild look in its beady black eyes.

Rhalkyr watches every minute shift, every tiny ebb and flow of feeling that crosses
Elexia's face. At the mention of departure, a flicker series of his own emotions dart across his
eyes, swift as the fleeting shadows of predators at night - disappointment, hunger, fascination, and
the tiniest glimmer of something that may be covetousness. Without a word, he rises, his motions so
graceful as to be liquid, uncoiling with a feline elegance. Turning, he says over his shoulder,
cloak snapping and flapping in the wind, "Sing, next, we meet. Go well, little, songbird." With
this, his attention turns to the boar that has been boldly wandering in and out - and in a motion of
such abrupt force that it sends a plume of displaced forest debris up in his wake, he pounches upon
it. The beast squeals in commingled rage and fear as it is grasped about the throat, and the cries
grow yet more piteous still as it is hauled up into the trees with appalling ease, growing ever more
distance as the striped human fades into the forest.