North of Oak (closed)

[Obuzeti]

A forest grows its age down. At the canopy, the leaves are green, birds flock and flutter, and seeds sprout to be spread to far crevices. To go down is to go backwards in time: a river of bark that ripples up to a mountain-trunk mighty and dead, crouched and armored in years. It can take centuries for the past to climb to sunlight - for now, death is buried underfoot. It sets root in the leaves instead, spread across the detritus.

Joachim darts across a root as thick as he, limber and light as sparrows. He skims across the forest floor, moccasin-clad feet barely stirring the arbor's graveyard, as he bounds and leaps. A deer trail winds before him, a half-pace free of bramble that slides between these massive oaks and into the Singing Dell. All manner of greenery grows there, and it's that he seeks: an outbreak of the blue cough has laid low the nearby hamlet of Lygol Gywnnad. It issn't particularly deadly, but it lingers, and a small town lives week to week on its labor - they can't afford to have many out for illness long. So comes the bells, and so comes Joachim, as wayfarers do to those chiming calls, to have them the moss that forms the proper tincture.

Grant's moss (or, as the elves would have it, Nasearg Dunwaach) is an unpleasant little specimen that grew in areas of high magic concentration, forming shivering green mats high above the forest floor. It filters ambient magic from the air, both feeding on it and concentrating it, then releases spores that use that energy to float far higher, eventually reaching sunny, open canopies where it can spread happily along uncovered bark. Impossible to find at ground level, it takes an acrobat to gather - which he qualifies as. All wayfarers are light and limber, willows in the breeze, and he does not buck the trend. His tunic and breeches are thick, good wool dyed a deep blue, and a cloak sits wrapped over one shoulder as a makeshift rucksack, blanket, and coat all in one, neat buckles holding it firm through his springing gait.

The Dell itself is the only place the moss would grow nearby, and though the dryad there's reputed to be fearsome, the wayfarer has faith in his charm, and failing that, his swift feet. His destination swells ahead of him - a valley in the forest (all things in the Chasm, after all, are in the valleys) where birdsong soars unceasing, a thousand beaks and wings achatter in the shadow of a great oak that towers far overhead, topping the closest tree by an order of magnitude. Its great roots form their own hillocks with saplings upon them, bursting with life. He whistles in admiration, and starts his way through the surrounding trees, as he begins to sing with the bluejays:

Agus n'fheadar liom,
Cad a thiocfaidh orm.
Lena gruaig chomh dubh
Is a súile gorm.
Ach thóg mé a lámh.
Thug mé rince di,
Agus phóg mé cailín na Gaillimhe.

His eyes might be woad-blue to match, but he's too sun-tanned to match their brilliant coats, hair faded to a gentle brown from years under the Roadsun. Joachim manages to fit his melody in with their harmony nonetheless, the familiar Elvish sprightly on his lips as he sings about girls and dancing and firelight without a care, smiling.

 

[SeraphNocturne]

The forest was alight with gossip, every moment of every day from the first rays of sunlight filtering through the forest canopy, to the black abyss that loomed overhead, littered in a thousand stars. For one as ancient and intertwined with the forest as N'ymerria, it was second nature to tune into the whispers of the trees carried upon gentle breezes to her ears. On the average day fickle matters of whimsy and pleasantries would amuse her--things like crossing earth with one another's roots, the paths of the fauna whom inhabited their great green depths, and on occasion even to complain of a disturbance of wide-leaf emerald ivy that she might even be summoned to dispel.

The elder trees, of course, communicated far slower than the young saplings and so it took an extraordinary amount of time for her to piece together their conversations--which she knew for a fact could drag on for months between two very, very well-aged inhabitants. She employed other look-outs and sources of information for this reason, especially the red and blue birds of the day, and great horned owls in the night... sometimes understanding the creatures of the forest was a feat slightly more challenging than the whispers of the trees whom spoke a language as old as the world itself. If it meant she could keep to herself, she was more than willing to brush up on her ability to commune with both flora and fauna.

Today the blue-jays were all in a frenzy and twittering their excitement; there was a traveler of whom they seemed particularly fond, drawing near. It might have struck her as odd, for a traveler to be so deep in the heart of the forest--the nearest village was quaint and resourceful, inhabited by Wood Elves whom were hard working, resourceful and rather reclusive forest folk themselves... almost as much so as N'ymerria, whom they regarded with the utmost respect. They did not venture into the dell of the Dryad, for they considered it sacred and knew her to be fierce of tongue and short of temper, a shape-shifter, and a solitary deity.

N'ymerria rested, her petite and slender figure draped with ease across one of the wide arms of Callen'aatara, the affectionate and most fitting title she had come to call the massive Oak. 'Green Mother' in common tongue was a beacon of life to all of those in this sacred space, it was where N'ymerria could most commonly be found and where she would always return. From it's tallest branches one could view nearly anything in any direction, from the snow capped mountains of the north, to the river-lands where the High Elves resided at the east--and every bit of beautiful green land in between. Long, dark lashes fluttered gently, the blue-jay's excited chatter soon evolved into a melody of sorts. It tickled her memory in the slightest, reminding her of one of the celebrations the Elves tended to gather for during the season, though she didn't make a habit of keeping up with the schedules of celebrations for the common folk. It seemed every change of season they had seven or eight things to gather and sing and dance over, and while it did entertain her every now and then to watch from the sidelines in silence, sometimes it was exhausting and she cherished her solitary existence most during these times.

Assuming this traveler was a resident of Lygol Gywnnad, sent to her for aide, N'ymerria slowly stirred from her cat-nap and draped her slender legs over the edge of the bark as she stretched her arms above her head with a wide yawn. With nimble and expert grace, she dropped down through the winding branches toward the base of the Oak, her bare feet finally meeting with the great system of roots at the base of Callen'aatara, and she walked along them all but weightlessly until the mossy green earth tickled her feet. With each step it seemed a spring of wildflowers was left behind, the grass itself seeming to greet the forest guardian as she threaded so light she left no trace upon the earth. From it however, she summoned slender silver vines and foliage which snaked their way up milky smooth flesh in order to cover her, modestly.

She did not often entertain the laws and constricts of society--she wore no elaborate garments of fine silk, wool, fur or leather. She was content to wander as bare as the day she was born, but in her age and experience, she knew how such encounters went. The bare flesh of the Dryad, with her ample bosom and curvaceous albeit lithe physique was enough to make even the most solid-minded fellow blush and break focus, or invoke envy from any lady to cross her path. The elves were a prude race, it mattered not what part of the forest they came from. It was often said by their silver-tongued poets who were blessed enough to lay eyes upon the forest guardian that the Gods themselves may stand in awe of N'ymerria. The humor in that had long since died away.

The leaves gathered, to shield her woman-hood and soft, pink nipples, but they focused little elsewhere and she did not think to kill any manner of green life for the peace of mind of any sentient 'intelligent' being, so she did not call on them any longer, and simply sought to meet this stranger. She heard his voice now, and drew nearer, paying little mind to the young elk drawing from the brush curiously at the presence of the Dryad who trailed along after her fondly. She could hear the soft crunch of the leaves beneath the man's feet, and felt instantly a shift in her demeanor as the gossip of the many wings in the trees came to her. A wayfarer, they called him, and she knew immediately this meant he traveled the Chasm and perhaps beyond. She gritted her teeth, long silver hair swept over a should gently. One never knew what to expect with these types. She could do him the curteousy at the least to see what it was he expected of the dell, before she either sent him on his way, or offered him direction.

"Ceri cin ped o im ambar...?" Her voice was a smooth soprano, flowing from full, plush lips like the gentlest of river. Beneath the pleasant, musical tones was a commanding essence of power and security, perhaps ever so slightly sarcastic. N'ymerria was neither unsure nor fearful of any man in her forest... in fact, she felt perhaps they were rather in-superior, and easily manipulated creatures, and would have greeted a female traveler with far less skepticism. She crossed her arms gently over her chest as he drew into her line of vision.

"Do you speak of the world, or the common tongue?" It was difficult to understand her Elvish, at times, the dialect was one rarely spoken now all but forgotten as the centuries turned and the forest grew.

 

[Obuzeti]

The wayfarer places one hand over his heart, and inclines his head low enough to take eyes off N'ymerria - the stranger's bow, between the lord's and servant's, indicative of momentary imposure or debt. It might well have been lost on her - customs varied wildly among the Chasm's roils, and the dryad was likely older than his culture anyways. The tradition stood, nonetheless, like the two rings on his right hand, middle and ring. Scholar and trader, framed in the copper of a freeman.

The Ringed Land's customs still held sway on him, after all these years.

"Woodslady," he greets, eyes crinkled by good humor. "I can do either, but my Elvish múinteoir had but a bare span to instruct me. I can carry a tune in any tongue, but I'd fain spare you my mutterings of the motherspeech. I'd not do it justice."

A pause, and there's a flicker of teeth, a smile that darts like a thrush. "I don't need help sounding the fool, you see."

He tries, and mostly succeeds, in not staring. Instead the wayfarer focuses on counting her eyelashes. Her shorter stature means he has to glance down slightly to make eye contact, and with her heavy breasts cupped and cradled by her arms, there's an astounding amount of décolletage on display - not that her outfit would really count as a dress -

Ah.

"There's an illness run rampant in Gywnnad, and the elves are laid low with fever and cough," he says, averting his eyes to the nearby birds still chirping merrily. No need to be more offensive than he already is, certainly. He can already hear the friction in her voice, striking sparks against every part of his identity: male, human, stranger, wayfarer. It's a bullet list of the unconscionable. "They rang the bells for aid, and I'm to search for the moss to cure their ails. Nasearg dunwaach, I think?"

The wayfarer's eyes narrow in thought, and those white teeth peek out to gnaw on his lip thoughtfully. Light blue eyes dart low and cloud over in contemplation as he tries to recall how those distant lessons went, but the scant vocabulary he was taught doesn't include anything relevant. "I don't know how that translates. Awful consonant-filled, for Elvish. It's probably some kind of insult. Dwarf Squint, or something. Human Stench. Probably with some description of a rose and the color of moonlight on a rabbit's ribcage in there."

There is a pause as he trails off into his own thoughts.

"Right," the wayfarer states abruptly, rising from his cerebral mists with a doglike shake of his head, brown braided ponytail tossing behind him, glass beads glinting in the forest sunlight. "This Dunwaach moss. I ask a boon of you, woodslady - point me to it. I'm lost, and this is your forest, and you intimidate me enough that leaping around like a squirrel in your territory uninvited sounds like a terrible idea."

When in doubt, profuse honesty usually works.

 

[SeraphNocturne]

He bent at the waist and swept low to show her respect, and while his stance and posture were neither terribly familiar to the bows and gestures the graceful elves would greet her with, a bow was a bow in any era or culture. It was allowed without insult; although, N'ymerria could easily consider his mere presence alone insulting. It was curiosity alone that kept her from driving this vermin from the dell, and perhaps the slightest anticipation of uncertainty because what she knew of humans were that they were vile disgusting and infectious beasts. They were empty and hollow beasts that did not feel the earth, for it's connection and wealth had been lost on them ages ago; they cared not of its well being or plight, and they sought simply to destroy anything that they set their greedy hands on.

She grew weary at the thought of having to so much as lay a hand upon him, or for him to do onto her. Whispers on the wind had brought her stories of great oaks turned to ash under the touch of a human, horror stories and myth she retorted, mere gossip and fables from the trees to coax their saplings to root away from the edge of the Rippled Chasm. N'ymerria still dared not find out for herself. The forests and streams, the animals that thrived in all of the world, and one another if need be.

He seemed to be in good spirits as he spoke to her in the common tongue, not daring the elvish tongue--the locals had a hard time, sometimes, understanding N'ymerria's forgotten dialect. He was wise not to embarrass himself though she would have loved the opportunity to belittle the human man. Overhead she heard the birds twittering their fondness of this wayfarer, her dark brows knitting together ever so slightly to paint her fair features in disapproval, yet she quelled the full expression of disgust from taking it's place. He was not terribly unpleasant to look upon, not as disgusting as she had imagined a human to be... in fact, he rather favored the wood elves, in a sense, yet he stood nearly a head taller than her. It did not phase her much.

She gently captured her chin between slender digits and pondered, waiting him to finish. She didn't wish to offer any aid to the human man, yet she had no qualms with the people of the forest. It was her duty to oversea their well being here as well, as everything was in its place, and they were vital to the balance of the forest... the hunters kept the elk under control, and the wolves in their territories, and they fished the streams which drove them to flow rich and bountiful carving through the land. She murmured the mantra to herself mindfully, "Aéo im nahir al hín..." Everything in its place.

"I know of this moss and where it blooms but it is a sacred place... and you are a disease. I would not have you bring harm to Green Mother." Her usually sweet and lyrical voice was a harsh hiss at the human, for good reason. Her very life was tied to the great Live Oak. Of the nearest trees, Green Mother was one of few in this forest with essence enough to act as a habitat for the Nasearg Dunwaach. Her eyes narrowed, and she gently brushed the cascade of silvery locks over her shoulder as she gestured to his hands with an irate demand.

"Let me see your palms... will you turn Green Mother to ash, if you were to rise through her branches?"

 

[Obuzeti]

Joachim's smile dims to a reserved level, as he raises his hands, palm shown to the Dryad. "I'd note that enough life is invariably detrimental in any form - deer herds can strip enough bark to kill trees, for example, and I should hardly need to point out how efficient beavers are at their duties. Enough of anything can overdose; even water can drown or hyposalinate. Life unrestrained will always overwhelm."

It'd probably be smarter not to debate with the nature spirit. He's a smart person, right?

He shrugs pleasantly, though the gesture is somewhat abbreviated by his gesture of surrender, faux or otherwise. "At any rate, I intend no harm, and I'm not welcome here. I'd just prefer not to have a village starve because my abilities at scraping moss weren't up to par. If you don't want me up in your tree, can you send a squirrel up to nab some for me? Possibly a crow?"

The wayfarer's brow wrinkles as his eyes fog over in thought. "Actually, do you have a symbiotic relationship with animals or is it just the plants? Do -"

He pauses. The brow unwrinkles as Joachim's mouth purses, chagrined.

"I'm talking a lot. I do that when I'm nervous."

Chatter is his first defense mechanism. He's reliably informed that it's annoying. Annoying seems like a good thing not to be at this precise moment. Dry intellectualism is better than just staring at the dryad slack-jawed, but not by much. There's not much to do about it; he's a highly kinetic person, and standing still makes his brain bounce instead. He can already feel the ball of one foot bouncing involuntarily.