Training in the Glade

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eLk glides over the wintry canopy of the Feythorn Forest. At this low altitude, each slow downbeat of his large mossy wings displaces drifts of snow from the leafless treetops. In response, the occasional startled family of nesting birds takes off into the crisp cold sky, squawking in momentary alarm and protest before returning to perch grumpily on their chosen tree.

Having left Port Ffirst earlier that day, eLk, Sunday, and Sheryl flew west, taking a long, leisurely route along the Feythorn treeline for a few hours before banking south and heading deeper over the woods.

Along the way, following a long curving ‘U’ shape, Sunday points out to Sheryl the various notable landmarks of the forest: the abandoned temple recently investigated by some adventurers from Port Ffirst; the Three Stones, a revolving portal to diverse planes; the Syvax Lake, once home to a corrupted dryad, now a peaceful habitat; the Buried Tower, a long-neglected structure of unknown origin; and the blasted, abandoned site where Granny’s Cottage once – quite literally – stood on two foul limbs. A site currently in the process of being reclaimed by Sunday and the Firbolgs who guard the Feythorn.

With that last location falling swiftly behind, the three rejoined the northern treeline several miles south of Daring, flying east, away from Granny’s Cottage and towards Willow Glade, Sunday’s home in the forest.

From about 1000 feet or so away, Sheryl can easily spot the gigantic willow breaking through the forest ceiling, dwarfing the trees around it. She is struck not just by the height but also the circumference of the tree: a typically slender species, this willow’s trunk is incredibly broad and gnarled. Displaying none of the usual stooped nature of its genus, this example stands tall and proud; its many delicate tresses not so much drooping as flowing over the surroundings. As they draw nearer, it is marked out from the nearby flora through not just its size but also its relative state of non-dormancy. Despite the mid-winter coats, or lack thereof, worn by its neighbours, this willow still retains much of its vibrancy and colour. Sheryl lets out a little gasp of wonder as she takes in its majesty.

At a silent nudge from Sunday, eLk begins to descend quickly but smoothly, dropping below the canopy to approach Willow Glade from closer to ground level.

Touching down 100 feet or so from the giant willow, Sunday and Sheryl slide off eLk’s back to approach Sunday’s home on foot. eLk launches himself into the air once more to stretch his wings and wheel away into the sky. Sheryl calls out to him in Sylvan as he leaves with a wave, “It was a pleasure! Many thanks for the wonderful flight!” eLk dips his wings in response as he goes.

Sunday leads her friend to the top of a mound from which the giant tree is growing, the mound’s surface striated and broken up by a mass of sprawling willow roots. Cresting the top and leaning with one hand against the vast trunk of the willow, Sheryl sees below her a hollow depression in the earth – a sheltered glade running from the base of the mound right up to the edge of a stream. About 60ft in diameter, the floor of the glade is soft loam and heathery moss strewn with wild flora: pansies, helleborus, dogwood, and winter cherry. Mostly winter species of flower, but mixed in occasionally with the odd single rose, incongruous sunflower, or stubborn buttercup.

“Sunday this is…” Sheryl breathes softly, taking in the beauty of the glade. “This is absolutely wonderful.”

The hibernating silence of the wider forest is broken by the brief, snatched song of birds flitting from branch to branch; the low buzz of a lazy bumblebee drifting between pollen-rich stamens. The stream burbles along the edge of the clearing, its flat banks topped with rushes and reeds, and a normal-sized willow hangs over its surface. As the gently rushing water leaves the aura of Willow Glade, its pace slows, becoming sluggish and clogged with ice. Not even Sheryl’s strong affinity for nature is required to tell her that something about this small space enables it to both reflect and reject the wintery quiet and dormancy that has settled over the rest of the Feythorn and wider beyond. Looking up, she notes that even the sunlight streaming through from above seems stronger, warmer, brighter.

Sheryl closes her eyes and lets the hum of the bees’ wings and the burble of the stream weave into her mind. Taking a deep breath, pulling in the energy she feels touching every blade of this small paradise, she begins to sing.

            Not a tear did I shed as I flew out of sight
            Weightless in harmony
            Maybe one day I can fly over
            To the paradise we once shared...

She lets the echoes of the verse drift through the calm air, the slight dissonant notes held suspended. Then she exhales, opening her blue topaz eyes and the moment passes. Turning to find Sunday watching her, Sheryl smiles sheepishly, a flush creeping over her cheeks.

“I don’t know what just came over me. This place, your home... it’s so beautiful. A true reflection of the one who lives here,” she says softly, her gaze lingering on Sunday’s face before looking away.

Sunday smiles back at her fondly, before descending into the glade. She walks over to a ring of riverstones worn flat and smooth by the passage of water over time; ash and charred wood fill the bed of the circle – a simple, box-like construction made from clay and suspended between sticks hangs a few feet above the earth. The tiefling looks up at her guest, still standing at the top of the mound.

“Tea?” she asks. “Something to eat?” A sly smile curves over her lips. “Or did you want to get straight to it..?”

“Oh let’s hop right to it!” Sheryl says, an excited glint sparking in her eyes, overtaking the softness a moment before. “I’m sure I will need the tea afterwards though – and then some.” She starts doing some over-the-top lunches to get limbered up.

After a moment, hearing no response, Sheryl looks up to see Sunday’s form vanishing into the normal-sized willow by the stream on the far side of the glade, the wood of the trunk sealing up behind her.

“Wha…?”

For a moment there is nothing. Silence, stillness – and then, behind her, Sheryl hears the sound of tearing wood. She spins in time to see the bark of the giant tree beside her splitting in two about 10 feet off the ground. Sunday plunges through the sudden gap with her glowing hammers clasped in outstretched hands and swinging towards Sheryl. At the last second, just before the twin weapons slam into the halfling’s temples, Sunday brings them to a sudden stop, the warm metal resting lightly against Sheryl’s skin. Sunday winks at her and vanishes from view in a golden-green haze, reappearing 30 feet behind Sheryl in the centre of the glade, arms spread wide, waiting. The faint scent of a summer breeze stirring the air.

Sheryl shakily takes out her silvered rapier, pulling herself up to her full 3’9” height. A determined line appears between her brow and she charges forward towards Sunday. But she doesn’t reach her in time; Sunday is already moving. The halfling’s eyes widen, opting for defence with her silvered blade. Sunday moves so fast that Sheryl blinks and loses sight of her for a moment, her armoured form shimmering like a mirage. And then, tail snaking and coiling around Sheryl’s body, Sunday reappears standing pressed up close against her back, attempting to hold the halfling in place. Spinning and twisting out of the tightening grip of Sunday’s tail, Sheryl dips down and elegantly dances around her friend, raising her rapier again in defence.

Sunday grins wolfishly at her. “Good! People our size must always keep moving. Never get pinned down. Now attack!”

Sheryl continues to circle around Sunday, feet tracing out a pas de bourrée as she tries to get behind her friend. But Sunday’s too clever for that, matching her steps as she turns. Feeling her opportunity slipping away, Sheryl raises the dragon hilt of her rapier and cuts sharply across – like a conductor abruptly ending a melody – stopping just shy of Sunday’s luminous hair. The tiefling feels a light prick as the point mistakenly pierces her collarbone and Sheryl’s eyes widen.

“I- I’m sorry! I thought-”

A single bead of purple-red blood starts to trickle down the length of Sheryl’s blade. She takes a cautious step back lowering her weapon slightly.

Sunday looks down at the shallow wound and smiles. “No one’s cut me for a long time; not even during the final battle of the giant war.” She looks back up at Sheryl, grin widening. “Excellent! Again!” she says, and drops into a defensive stance, twin hammers slowly weaving in front of her.

Keep moving, Sheryl reminds herself and attacks again with her rapier, darting to Sunday’s right and lunging in. Sunday lazily brings up one of her hammers to block her too-slow swing. Sheryl spins to the left and pulls a dagger from her belt with her free hand as she twirls, intending to surprise her friend – but a second hammer is there knocking the smaller blade aside with ease.

“Smart,” grunts Sunday approvingly as, with both hammers currently engaged, her tail lashes out at Sheryl.

The rose-bud tip connects with the halfling’s chest like a boxer’s punch, knocking the smaller woman onto her back. Before Sheryl can right herself, Sunday is kneeling over her, both hammers pressed firmly against the studded leather armour encasing her tiny frame. Sheryl can feel the latent power thrumming through the weapons and into her bones. “Don’t forget.” Sunday admonishes. “Any part of the body can act as a weapon. Up!” she shouts as she leaps back 10 feet.

Sheryl tries to pick herself up with some dignity but she feels the effects of the fight already. Panting, she says, “I don’t- have a tail- like you. All I have- are these,” she lifts her rapier and dagger, “and my words. I’m good with words- and songs, but I’ve always- struggled- with combat.” She looks at Sunday’s fierce form. “I have so little.”

“Bah!” Sunday barks, dropping her hammers to the ground. “Your excuses are smaller than you are! You might one day find yourself in the middle of battle without those.” She gestures to the weapons in Sheryl’s hands. “And then what will you do? Complain? I just said any part of the body can be used as a weapon, didn’t I?” Sunday raises her now-empty hands in front of her, and Sheryl can see the tielfling’s fingers begin to elongate and sharpen into claws as she speaks; the curved rams horns emerging from Sunday’s hair start to shift and split, their form indistinct. “Find a way to use whatever you have. Don’t fuck about with fancy duelling and limiting rules of combat. There are no rules. Now, enough practice. Perform!” She leaps forward at the hafling, crackling golden-green light sparking between talons pointed directly at Sheryl’s throat. “Survive!”

What?! Any part of the body? What does she mean?! Sheryl thinks to herself in a panic, as Sunday arrows through the air towards her. I just told her I don’t have a tail, didn’t I?! ...Any part, any part… I mean, my voice is the strongest-

Sheryl’s head snaps up.

She opens her mouth and unleashes a thunderous wave of discordant noise – half-sung, half-screamed – in Sunday’s direction. The blast of raucous sound catches the tiefling full in the chest and slams her backwards across the glade, the flowers and grass beneath her bending back in concert with the passing of Sheryl’s power.

As she lands, Sunday ducks her head and rolls, using her tail as leverage to spring to her feet. Wiping blood from her nose, Sunday looks back at Sheryl and blinks in confusion as, just for a moment, she swears she sees Titania in front of her. Then her vision clears; and it is still Sheryl, but her form has changed. Regal and fierce, wicked and beautiful, the air around the halfling is charged with a crackling energy as a crescendo of music swirls around her. She raises her rapier and dagger and charges, singing or screaming as she advances on Sunday with a fierceness that sets both of their blood boiling with excitement.

Momentarily taken aback at the import of her friend seemingly summoning the image and power of Titania to her glade, Sunday’s fists clench. Arcs of golden-green light, this time tinged with a sickly purple, streak along her claws and earth themselves in the glade’s floor. The roses blooming in Sunday’s immediate vicinity shrivel and wither as her aura clouds and darkens.

On the point of leaping forward to attack in earnest, Sunday catches herself. She shakes her head, dispersing the faint pink mist coalescing at the corners of her vision. She narrows her eyes, taking in the wild recklessness of Sheryl’s charge; the change that’s overcome her; the raw power she’s struggling to contain.

She’s not in control, Sunday realises.

“Enough.”

Sunday’s voice isn’t loud, but it cuts through the cacophony of noise emanating from the onrushing halfling. As she speaks, she slams the palm of her left hand into the ground at her feet and a circle of force flares outward for 30 feet in all directions from the point of impact. The earth itself ripples and churns as the concussive power arrests Sheryl’s charge and flings her to the ground for a second time. As the destructive wave dissipates, it sweeps away with it the aura of the Summer Queen. For a second time, Sunday stands above Sheryl, the halfling now in her usual form. This time, however, Sunday’s tone isn’t instructive but insistent.

“Why did you do that? Was that your power… or hers?”

“My power is my own. I may have taken some inspiration from Her,” Sheryl says and grins, not picking up on the concern in Sunday’s eyes, “but I’m using what weapons I have, just as you said.” She winks, and then says in Sylvan, “Now you see me-” and suddenly vanishes from sight. Sunday sits back on her heels and swears, and hears a soft giggle coming from somewhere around her in response.

Sunday closes her eyes and lets her senses mingle with the glade around her. Extending her perception out through the aura of her Oath and its natural affinity for all living things, she can feel every source of life in the near vicinity. There: a bee lazily drifting on to the next flower; there: an ant industriously chipping away at a crumb of bread; there: a crocus bulb struggling to push through the topsoil – and there: the unmistakable energy of Sheryl, her physical form concealed in a shroud of cloaking magic, but her spirit still shines out brightly. Sunday concentrates on the spell shielding the halfling, looking for entry points through which to thread her own power into the weave of the magic… A small rift, just there! Sunday focuses and starts to peel back the arcane layers surrounding her friend.

A second later, Sheryl pops back into view - standing about 20 feet away from Sunday facing her across the stone fire pit in the middle of the glade.

Sheryl looks at herself and back at Sunday as the tiefling takes a predatory step towards her. “Lady give me strength,” she mutters under her breath, and a wave of healing magic courses through her, making her stand up straighter. Her lips quirk into a half smile, though it is a bit shaky. She crosses her rapier and dagger in front of her, attempting to gather her voice which she then throws over to Sunday, scraping the two blades against each other to ring in dissonance. The air by Sunday’s chest explodes with vibrations, but she is strong and the spell barely affects her. Sheryl thinks and starts to back away further, mind racing to figure out what she can do next.

As she retreats, Sunday takes two running steps towards her, disappearing between one stride and the next in a crackle of golden-green energy. Reappearing in the air above Sheryl, Sunday drops down behind her, bringing her clawed hands down hard on each of Sheryl’s shoulders.

“Tag. You’re it.”

Under the impact, Sunday sees Sheryl’s arms fall to her sides, dropping the silvered rapier and dagger, their muffled clatter a soft tinkle of music in the still glade. Sheryl starts to tip forward, her legs bending at the knees. It’s a little curious because Sunday initially thinks her friend is faking it, trying for a feint. But Sheryl doesn’t stop falling forward. Her feet twist in the soft dewy grass as she collapses onto her side, unconscious.

“Damn,” Sunday mutters, dropping to one knee beside Sheryl and placing a hand on her forehead. She closes her eyes and whispers a few words under her breath. A surge of warmth pulses through the halfling and she begins to stir, fully healed. Sunday dances back a few paces and fades from view.

As Sheryl sits up, a bit disorientated, she hears Sunday’s disembodied voice say, “I’m over here!”

“What… happened?” Sheryl mutters, shaking her head. She blinks a few times, sees her weapons on the ground and quickly picks them up. “I’m going to get you for that, Sunday,” she said in a teasing voice looking around as she stands up. But she doesn’t see the tiefling. She lets her mind reach out as she says in a sing-song voice, “I can tell what you’re thinking...” And she does feel the presence of Sunday’s mind somewhere nearby. She listens.

….will she cast a spell or will she attack probably won't attack cos can't see me maybe another thunderwave ohshitshecanhearme-

Sheryl smirks as she starts dashing away very quickly in a south eastern direction.

For a moment, nothing happens. Then the ground begins to rumble and shake. All the vegetation and flora carpeting the floor of the glade pulses with life and shoots up by a foot or two, thick and overgrown with brambles and briars and weeds.

“Oh come on!” Sheryl shouts in frustration as the vegetation grows too thick for her and tries to trip her light-stepping feet. She tries to get out of the radius but soon the flora and fauna are so thick, they don’t even allow for her legs to move. Sunday pops back into view in the corner of her vision standing by the river edge about 30 feet away, and Sheryl glares daggers at her. “I said I wanted to train, how is thi-” she nearly falls over. She curses and Sunday chuckles.

That does it, Sheryl thinks and she points at Sunday, her mouth open. Her voice is thrown across to the tiefling and another ear-shattering, high-pitched note reverberates in the glade. Not caring what sort of damage she’s done this time, Sheryl turns back and starts hacking at the plants entangling her feet and legs with fury and frustration and attempts to move further away.

A small hand appears, catching the blade mid-swing.

“Don’t hurt the plants, please.”

Sunday steps into view in front of Sheryl. “This is training. Things can change in an instant. What do you do if you miss a note or a string breaks? Do you stop mid-song? Or do you improvise?”

“I’m not like you, Sunday!” Sheryl looks up at her and Sunday sees beyond the frustration there is a tiny bit of panic in her eyes. “I’m not a strong, solo fighter. I am trying, but I don’t know how to do this combat thing on my own. You have so much more experience than me, so much more to you, like She does. But I’m so weak. Everyone else I know is so much stronger! Taz, Wil, Mathew, Arkadius, Bubbles, all of them! I’m not enough-” her throat catches, realizing she’s said too much and tears prick at her eyes. She brushes her hand across her face in frustration, swallowing down the tears and emotions that have threatened to come out of nowhere. She tries to steady her voice. “I need practice. I need some guidance. I need to be ready for anything.” She looks at the half-hacked plants around her legs and says in a small voice. “I’m sorry.” Whether it’s to the plants for cutting them or to Sunday, she’s not sure.

Sunday tilts her head to one side and watches her. She doesn’t say anything as Sheryl speaks, blood dripping from the hand clutching the sword blade to water the ground at their feet. When she finally does, after a long moment’s silence, her voice is soft, gentle, concerned.

“You don’t want to go back, do you?”

Sheryl looks up at Sunday, stunned. “I...don’t know,” she said hesitantly. “It’s all I’ve ever known, for so long... Coming here, I didn’t think I’d miss it.” She looks away, embarrassed. “I do, every day I miss being there. But…” her brow furrows, “...it’s like missing the memory of a dream. Was it ever real? Do I remember it correctly? Or am I just lying to myself… because it’s all I’ve ever known?”

Sunday lets go of the blade and puts her hands either side of Sheryl’s face.

“It’s not all you’ve ever known; not anymore. I don’t know those names you just mentioned – apart from Bubbles, that is – but they sound important to you. Yer, I’m stronger in a fight than you are – than anyone in Daring or Port Ffirst, for that matter – but I never go into one on my own… not anymore. Not now I have people around me who make me stronger – and who I make stronger.” Sunday looks down at herself; Sheryl follows her eyes, noticing the extent of the contusions, cuts, and blood on Sunday’s form for the first time. “Besides, you’re plenty strong on your own.”

“I did all that?” Sheryl says in shocked awe. Her hand reaches out and lightly touches where Sunday’s neck meets her collarbone. She feels both proud and worried about hurting her friend. She hums a few notes and the small wound heals up, the lilac skin smoothing over as unblemished as a new petal.

A thought rises to the surface and Sheryl bites her lip. “Remember before... when you said I shine brighter when I bless those with my music?” A sad little half-smile touches her lips. She looks Sunday in the eyes and nearly loses her courage, afraid of what she will think, but she forces it out. “I feel Her… every time I sing. Her powers are within me, getting stronger every time I–” she looks at her wings and the memory of the Fey magic from earlier ripples across them. “I sometimes don’t know where I end and… She begins…”

Sunday nods slowly in understanding.

Sheryl’s shoulders ease and she starts to feel the peace of the glade seep into her as she gives voice to thoughts and worries which have been bubbling beneath the surface for weeks. She looks into Sunday’s eyes and sees the strength her friend has deep within her.

Sheryl sighs and pulls back from Sunday. Attempting to get her legs free again it seems to work a bit easier. “I always find myself saying such things when I’m around you, Sunday.” She walks cautiously away, placing her feet on the plants as lightly as she can. “I don’t wish for you to worry about me. You have your own battles you’re fighting, I can see it.” She looks over her shoulder. “I do not wish you to take on mine as well.” She smiles, but there’s a hint of sadness to it.

“We’re friends, Sheryl. I’m going to worry about you whether or not you give me permission. But I won’t press you to share anything you’d rather not. Just know that you can call on me if you need anything. Or, for whatever reason, if I’m not there then I’m sure Taz and Bubbles and the others you mentioned will be.” She pauses, considering something for a moment before raising an eyebrow at her. Sunday starts to weave her way through the overgrown foliage to pick up her twin hammers. “Now, did you want to go again or are you done for the day?”

A more playful grin starts to tug at the corners of her mouth as she turns around and looks at Sunday hefting her hammers. “Again.” She pulls out her rapier with a flourish. “And this time, I will get a hit on you, on purpose!” She shouts the last word, charging forward. The playful grin spreads into a full on smile. Sunday’s wolfish grin answers, as silvered sword clashes against hardened steel, percussion to a harmony as they continue their training together.