The Killing of a Sacred Deer (+Research DTA)
May 26, 2023 17:25:12 GMT
Riah, Velania Kalugina, and 5 more like this
Post by Zola Rhomdaen on May 26, 2023 17:25:12 GMT
(Following the events of The Lesser Evil and Smoke and Mirrors.)
For the past two tendays, Zola has been spending her afternoons at the Gossamer Threads Tea Rooms in Port Ffirst, getting to know the locals and the regulars, seeking out those knowledgeable in fey folklore. When she finally comes around to asking about Ceryneian hinds, a number of them look at her curiously, wondering what it is she’s referring to, and others enquire why she wants to know about them. That’s one hazard about seeking out information from gossips: whilst asking questions about some obscure topic, you may become a curiosity yourself. But Zola smoothly brushes these questions off with good-natured jokes and well-placed winks, keeping focused on the task at hand.
Distract and extract. That’s what Jaezred said.
The first person she speaks to — an old granny of a halfling who likes to add something from a hip flask to her tea and Zola’s (it’s strong, like fire whiskey, but with more bite) — says, “The Hind are beautiful creatures. Absolutely beautiful! When I was but a babe, my great-grandfather told stories about meeting one. Of course, he might have been spinning a tale. He was wont to do so! But…no, I believe he was earnest.”
For a moment, the old woman seems to lose herself in the memories of her youth, but a polite throat-clearing from Zola brings her back to the present.
“Ah, sorry dear. Where was I? Ah yes! The Hind. My great-grandpappy said these creatures could Step across the Realms with ease. Something about being favoured by deities of nature I believe, that allowed them to do so. That’s what made them such challenging prey for hunters! But”—she leans in close, gripping Zola’s hand rather fiercely in her old claw of a hand—“if one were to kill a Hind, well…you would be better off throwing yourself at the mercy of Asmodeus.”
She takes a sip of her strong tea, holding up her pinky in such a way that makes Zola hold onto the question that had entered her head.
“I see the question,” says the granny, as if reading her mind. “‘Why would a hunter not kill their quarry? What is the point?’ Hmm. Well. You see, dear, the Hind are favoured by those higher powers who preside over nature or hunting. That includes all sides. The good, the bad, and the ugly.” She chuckles. “Would you risk their ire for the momentary win of the kill?” Her blue eyes sparkle with the question.
Zola smiles nervously as she wiggles her hand out of the old woman’s surprisingly strong clasp. “Thank you for the story. That’s…really fascinating.”
It’s a fair question. Would I?
The Church of Eilistraee is going on a field trip.
It’s an initiative started by none other than their newest and most prominent member — the Spider in the Mountain, Lord Jaezred Vandree himself. Twice in each month, coinciding with occurrences of a full moon in the Material Plane, a number of them would hike up the mountain that houses Nicnevin’s palace, walking up an overgrown, winding path towards a plateau where numerous shrines to spirits of the land sit, until recently, abandoned.
Today, Zola and Jaezred are trailing behind the group. Cor’Vandor and He’lylbreia in the form of a black stallion carry large packs on their backs as their respective masters pull them along. Cor’Vandor is sending waves of grumpiness into Zola’s head, complaining about being treated like a pack mule, but she ignores him.
“That could be why Titania neglected to kill Oriniax after the war,” Jaezred muses aloud, “and imprisoned her and suppressed her memories instead.”
“So you think it was Titania who locked her memories away?” Zola asks. “Okay, I guess that makes sense. I don’t think she realised it, but she flinched each time we said Titania’s name in front of her.”
“And remember where you found the Horn of the Wild Hunt: in a temple within the Summer Court. One that has a cold iron prison inside it, no less. I have little doubt it was constructed with these Wildlings in mind.”
Zola pauses. “Wait. There was a prison in there?” The colour drains from her face and her voice drops to a desperate whisper. “When we opened the doors inside the temple, did we… Were we the ones who let them out?”
“I don’t know,” answers Jaezred brusquely. “I don’t know if they were ever in there, and if they were, how Drusilia managed to break them out. Look, it’s best not to dwell on this, and focus on the present. The Wild Hunt is now in possession of a horn that can cause frenzy to all who hear it, a steed that can run across planes of existence, and a ring we know nothing about…”
His voice trails off when they arrive at the plateau. Behind them, hundreds of feet below where they stand, is the vast, dark green canopy of the Witching Woods embraced by rolling clouds of mist. The rest of the group has been waiting for the two of them. The drow gather around Cor’Vandor and He’lylbreia and unload the packs from the steeds’ backs.
Out of gratitude for what he’d done for the chapel, the Eilistraeeans had volunteered to help Jaezred with his project to revitalise this near-lifeless stretch of sacred land. They bring offerings in the form of incense, votive candles, fresh game, vegetables, and mushrooms plucked from the soil, and they have also been clearing out weeds and debris that plagued the naturalistic shrines.
The changes are slight but noticeable. Memorial posts have been unearthed after sitting under dirt and thick foliage for decades, wildflowers have begun growing where the weeds were hewn from, and the trees and plants look the happiest they’ve been in a very, very long time.
Zola and Jaezred walk past a wooden picket fence, half an inch tall, surrounding a cluster of mushrooms with a tiny door carved into one of the stems. These strange little doors and windows have been found elsewhere in the area too; though if there are any residents behind them, they have never been seen and no amount of tapping or calling has ever garnered a response. According to Jaezred, not even the plants themselves say anything about it when spoken to through magic. The mysterious whimsy of it all puts a smile on Zola’s face.
Yet, once they are far enough away from the other drow again, her mind turns back to the spectres of hunters that now haunt the Dawnlands. Her inner song hasn’t stopped playing that forlorn tune. The smile fades from her lips.
“My lord. What is this war you keep mentioning? And if the Wild Hunt’s horn was in the Summer Court, then what was their ring doing in the Gloaming Court?”
The gentleman spymaster does not immediately answer. He turns his head to her and his eyes are glowing hypnotically moss-green. She feels a force of influence pressing against her mind, gently probing for entry, as if asking for permission…
She trusts him. She closes her eyes and lets it wash over her.
Zola’s eyes flutter open. She’s standing in the middle of a dead forest. Thick fog — thicker than even the mists of the Witching Woods — rolls endlessly between rotted, bald trees, and the bare, crimson soil beneath her unshod feet feels unusually warm. The sky above her head is black, starless and moonless.
The other drow are gone. The only other person here is Lord Jaezred, standing next to her. “Where are we?” she asks him.
“The Festerwoods. A place beyond the borders of the great courts. Though that wasn’t always its name.”
He offers a hand to her. She takes it, and he leads her deeper into the woods. Her body feels light and fleeting as it moves, as if she is walking through a dream. Squinting her eyes in the fog, she can make out several faint silhouettes in the distance.
“This was where three armies met in battle an age ago, during a time before most fey can remember. A war so bloody it destroyed and scarred the land.”
The silhouettes gradually become clearer, gaining shape, colour…and numbers. More and more numbers. There are hundreds, maybe thousands, of warriors around them, all frozen in motion. Most are riding horses mid-gallop in the air, though a fraction of them are fighting on the ground — crossing swords, drawing bows, throwing spears, bleeding, killing, fleeing, dying. Bloodshot eyes and mouths open in silent war cries.
“The annals of history say that there were no survivors in this war. The identities of the three commanders are lost to time, all that remains are vague epithets: The Dark Lord, The Warrior Queen, and The Woodsman. The ‘Wildling’.”
Each fey warrior wears raiments in one of three colours. Some are bedecked in armour red as the evening sun, the hooves of their steeds aflame. Others are clad in midnight’s black and cloaked in smoky shadow. The rest are in ethereal, deathly white.
“But this was false. I think the truth was buried under orders from the top. We know for sure that some who fought in the war survived.”
Jaezred turns to face where most of the warriors in white appear to come from. Zola follows his gaze. In the midst of the cavaliers and foot soldiers, towering above them all, is a massive, pure-white hind with many-pronged, crystalised horns, frozen in the middle of a graceful bound. A figure rides on its back, their features obscured by a bright light. Running next to the rider and mount is a red hag — though her face is partially hidden by her white hooded cloak, Zola can immediately tell who that is.
Her good eye flicks back to the figure atop the hind. “Is that…the ‘he’ Oriniax was talking about? Who was he?”
“Every hunt needs a leader, doesn’t it? A Lord of the Hunt.”
She lets go of his hand and weaves a path between the soldiers in stasis, ducking under a reared-back warhorse, and circling around Drusilia, Oriniax, and The Woodsman. No matter which angle she looks at him from, she can’t make out his face. “I don’t understand. What are you trying to tell me? Who would want the truth to be buried? And why?”
“Think, Miss Oussviir. Where were the horn and the ring found, the spoils of war?”
She looks at the warriors whose red armour burns like rays of summer and the warriors shrouded in darkness. The realisation strikes her like an arrow from nowhere. But just as she opens her mouth to speak, the Festerwoods and its war-spectres melt away from her sight…
When she opens her eyes again, they are back on the mountain, standing before a yawning, shallow cave. Jaezred is staring at her, hands calmly resting on his crystal-topped cane. She gapes back at him with a widened eye.
“You… You think Queen Titania and the Queen of Air and Darkness fought in the war with the Wild Hunt?”
“That is my guess. We still don’t know exactly when this took place, so it may very well had been their predecessors. It’s even possible that the Seelie and Unseelie joined forces to fight the Wild Hunt — unthinkable today, but perhaps if there was an existential threat to their realms or the Feywild as a whole…”
It’s hard to imagine indeed, but she can’t deny it makes a certain kind of sense. Oriniax’s voice plays back in her mind.
A battle… Two other sides coming towards us… Darkness and then a severance…
“You still haven’t said why they buried the truth,” she says, a frown creasing her brow.
“That,” he replies with a sigh, “is one of the many questions I’ve been seeking an answer to, but it is proving extremely difficult thus far. You said Pipper told you it looked like Jasper was cursed, right? Couldn’t say what he knew about the Wild Hunt? It looks like this embargo on information is still ongoing, assuming it wasn’t the Wildlings who cursed him. I dare not speculate why…”
“If we knew about this whole…Wild Hunt deal…” She gestures about frustratedly. “We’d never have given the horn to Drusilia. Or helped Oriniax get her memories back. Yes, I was stupid, I take full responsibility for what happened, but how does holding back information help anyone?”
Zola feels something soft brush against her leg — a panther is padding past her towards Jaezred. He’lylbreia has transformed to their preferred beast form and they nuzzle him lovingly, purring for affection. He chuckles and kneels down to embrace the big shadow cat.
She crosses her arms. “If the fey lords and ladies wanted to keep all of this hidden, then they should’ve finished the job. We wouldn’t be in this mess if they did. We wouldn’t be worrying about the hind.”
That gives both Jaezred and He’lylbreia pause. The two look up at her in unison. “You just told me yourself that killing a Ceryneian hind would provoke the wrath of the gods,” he says.
When Zola doesn’t answer, he continues, “The Ceryneian hind is a fey spirit of nature, not unlike those that dwell in this very place.” He’lylbreia perks up their ears. “And it is sacred to all gods who reign over the natural world, of which Eilistraee is one. She is a goddess of the hunt. Would you be willing to anger the Dark Maiden?” He shakes his head and waves a dismissive hand. “You know what, don’t answer that. I do not wish to be implicated in whatever you intend to do.”
He turns away from her, rising to his feet to start cleaning He’lylbreia’s cave-shrine. She walks off in a random direction. She doesn’t know what she was saying, and she’ll probably regret it later.
She knows that she’s angrier at herself more than anyone for having been fooled, for letting it go this far, for potentially putting innocents in danger. It’s the sort of anger that almost makes one want to say fuck you to kings and gods alike.
She’ll probably regret it later.
Co-written with Riah and Anthony
Artworks from Pathfinder: Reign of Winter
For the past two tendays, Zola has been spending her afternoons at the Gossamer Threads Tea Rooms in Port Ffirst, getting to know the locals and the regulars, seeking out those knowledgeable in fey folklore. When she finally comes around to asking about Ceryneian hinds, a number of them look at her curiously, wondering what it is she’s referring to, and others enquire why she wants to know about them. That’s one hazard about seeking out information from gossips: whilst asking questions about some obscure topic, you may become a curiosity yourself. But Zola smoothly brushes these questions off with good-natured jokes and well-placed winks, keeping focused on the task at hand.
Distract and extract. That’s what Jaezred said.
The first person she speaks to — an old granny of a halfling who likes to add something from a hip flask to her tea and Zola’s (it’s strong, like fire whiskey, but with more bite) — says, “The Hind are beautiful creatures. Absolutely beautiful! When I was but a babe, my great-grandfather told stories about meeting one. Of course, he might have been spinning a tale. He was wont to do so! But…no, I believe he was earnest.”
For a moment, the old woman seems to lose herself in the memories of her youth, but a polite throat-clearing from Zola brings her back to the present.
“Ah, sorry dear. Where was I? Ah yes! The Hind. My great-grandpappy said these creatures could Step across the Realms with ease. Something about being favoured by deities of nature I believe, that allowed them to do so. That’s what made them such challenging prey for hunters! But”—she leans in close, gripping Zola’s hand rather fiercely in her old claw of a hand—“if one were to kill a Hind, well…you would be better off throwing yourself at the mercy of Asmodeus.”
She takes a sip of her strong tea, holding up her pinky in such a way that makes Zola hold onto the question that had entered her head.
“I see the question,” says the granny, as if reading her mind. “‘Why would a hunter not kill their quarry? What is the point?’ Hmm. Well. You see, dear, the Hind are favoured by those higher powers who preside over nature or hunting. That includes all sides. The good, the bad, and the ugly.” She chuckles. “Would you risk their ire for the momentary win of the kill?” Her blue eyes sparkle with the question.
Zola smiles nervously as she wiggles her hand out of the old woman’s surprisingly strong clasp. “Thank you for the story. That’s…really fascinating.”
It’s a fair question. Would I?
The Church of Eilistraee is going on a field trip.
It’s an initiative started by none other than their newest and most prominent member — the Spider in the Mountain, Lord Jaezred Vandree himself. Twice in each month, coinciding with occurrences of a full moon in the Material Plane, a number of them would hike up the mountain that houses Nicnevin’s palace, walking up an overgrown, winding path towards a plateau where numerous shrines to spirits of the land sit, until recently, abandoned.
Today, Zola and Jaezred are trailing behind the group. Cor’Vandor and He’lylbreia in the form of a black stallion carry large packs on their backs as their respective masters pull them along. Cor’Vandor is sending waves of grumpiness into Zola’s head, complaining about being treated like a pack mule, but she ignores him.
“That could be why Titania neglected to kill Oriniax after the war,” Jaezred muses aloud, “and imprisoned her and suppressed her memories instead.”
“So you think it was Titania who locked her memories away?” Zola asks. “Okay, I guess that makes sense. I don’t think she realised it, but she flinched each time we said Titania’s name in front of her.”
“And remember where you found the Horn of the Wild Hunt: in a temple within the Summer Court. One that has a cold iron prison inside it, no less. I have little doubt it was constructed with these Wildlings in mind.”
Zola pauses. “Wait. There was a prison in there?” The colour drains from her face and her voice drops to a desperate whisper. “When we opened the doors inside the temple, did we… Were we the ones who let them out?”
“I don’t know,” answers Jaezred brusquely. “I don’t know if they were ever in there, and if they were, how Drusilia managed to break them out. Look, it’s best not to dwell on this, and focus on the present. The Wild Hunt is now in possession of a horn that can cause frenzy to all who hear it, a steed that can run across planes of existence, and a ring we know nothing about…”
His voice trails off when they arrive at the plateau. Behind them, hundreds of feet below where they stand, is the vast, dark green canopy of the Witching Woods embraced by rolling clouds of mist. The rest of the group has been waiting for the two of them. The drow gather around Cor’Vandor and He’lylbreia and unload the packs from the steeds’ backs.
Out of gratitude for what he’d done for the chapel, the Eilistraeeans had volunteered to help Jaezred with his project to revitalise this near-lifeless stretch of sacred land. They bring offerings in the form of incense, votive candles, fresh game, vegetables, and mushrooms plucked from the soil, and they have also been clearing out weeds and debris that plagued the naturalistic shrines.
The changes are slight but noticeable. Memorial posts have been unearthed after sitting under dirt and thick foliage for decades, wildflowers have begun growing where the weeds were hewn from, and the trees and plants look the happiest they’ve been in a very, very long time.
Zola and Jaezred walk past a wooden picket fence, half an inch tall, surrounding a cluster of mushrooms with a tiny door carved into one of the stems. These strange little doors and windows have been found elsewhere in the area too; though if there are any residents behind them, they have never been seen and no amount of tapping or calling has ever garnered a response. According to Jaezred, not even the plants themselves say anything about it when spoken to through magic. The mysterious whimsy of it all puts a smile on Zola’s face.
Yet, once they are far enough away from the other drow again, her mind turns back to the spectres of hunters that now haunt the Dawnlands. Her inner song hasn’t stopped playing that forlorn tune. The smile fades from her lips.
“My lord. What is this war you keep mentioning? And if the Wild Hunt’s horn was in the Summer Court, then what was their ring doing in the Gloaming Court?”
The gentleman spymaster does not immediately answer. He turns his head to her and his eyes are glowing hypnotically moss-green. She feels a force of influence pressing against her mind, gently probing for entry, as if asking for permission…
She trusts him. She closes her eyes and lets it wash over her.
🕷️🌕🕷️
Zola’s eyes flutter open. She’s standing in the middle of a dead forest. Thick fog — thicker than even the mists of the Witching Woods — rolls endlessly between rotted, bald trees, and the bare, crimson soil beneath her unshod feet feels unusually warm. The sky above her head is black, starless and moonless.
The other drow are gone. The only other person here is Lord Jaezred, standing next to her. “Where are we?” she asks him.
“The Festerwoods. A place beyond the borders of the great courts. Though that wasn’t always its name.”
He offers a hand to her. She takes it, and he leads her deeper into the woods. Her body feels light and fleeting as it moves, as if she is walking through a dream. Squinting her eyes in the fog, she can make out several faint silhouettes in the distance.
“This was where three armies met in battle an age ago, during a time before most fey can remember. A war so bloody it destroyed and scarred the land.”
The silhouettes gradually become clearer, gaining shape, colour…and numbers. More and more numbers. There are hundreds, maybe thousands, of warriors around them, all frozen in motion. Most are riding horses mid-gallop in the air, though a fraction of them are fighting on the ground — crossing swords, drawing bows, throwing spears, bleeding, killing, fleeing, dying. Bloodshot eyes and mouths open in silent war cries.
“The annals of history say that there were no survivors in this war. The identities of the three commanders are lost to time, all that remains are vague epithets: The Dark Lord, The Warrior Queen, and The Woodsman. The ‘Wildling’.”
Each fey warrior wears raiments in one of three colours. Some are bedecked in armour red as the evening sun, the hooves of their steeds aflame. Others are clad in midnight’s black and cloaked in smoky shadow. The rest are in ethereal, deathly white.
“But this was false. I think the truth was buried under orders from the top. We know for sure that some who fought in the war survived.”
Jaezred turns to face where most of the warriors in white appear to come from. Zola follows his gaze. In the midst of the cavaliers and foot soldiers, towering above them all, is a massive, pure-white hind with many-pronged, crystalised horns, frozen in the middle of a graceful bound. A figure rides on its back, their features obscured by a bright light. Running next to the rider and mount is a red hag — though her face is partially hidden by her white hooded cloak, Zola can immediately tell who that is.
Her good eye flicks back to the figure atop the hind. “Is that…the ‘he’ Oriniax was talking about? Who was he?”
“Every hunt needs a leader, doesn’t it? A Lord of the Hunt.”
She lets go of his hand and weaves a path between the soldiers in stasis, ducking under a reared-back warhorse, and circling around Drusilia, Oriniax, and The Woodsman. No matter which angle she looks at him from, she can’t make out his face. “I don’t understand. What are you trying to tell me? Who would want the truth to be buried? And why?”
“Think, Miss Oussviir. Where were the horn and the ring found, the spoils of war?”
She looks at the warriors whose red armour burns like rays of summer and the warriors shrouded in darkness. The realisation strikes her like an arrow from nowhere. But just as she opens her mouth to speak, the Festerwoods and its war-spectres melt away from her sight…
🕷️🌑🕷️
When she opens her eyes again, they are back on the mountain, standing before a yawning, shallow cave. Jaezred is staring at her, hands calmly resting on his crystal-topped cane. She gapes back at him with a widened eye.
“You… You think Queen Titania and the Queen of Air and Darkness fought in the war with the Wild Hunt?”
“That is my guess. We still don’t know exactly when this took place, so it may very well had been their predecessors. It’s even possible that the Seelie and Unseelie joined forces to fight the Wild Hunt — unthinkable today, but perhaps if there was an existential threat to their realms or the Feywild as a whole…”
It’s hard to imagine indeed, but she can’t deny it makes a certain kind of sense. Oriniax’s voice plays back in her mind.
A battle… Two other sides coming towards us… Darkness and then a severance…
“You still haven’t said why they buried the truth,” she says, a frown creasing her brow.
“That,” he replies with a sigh, “is one of the many questions I’ve been seeking an answer to, but it is proving extremely difficult thus far. You said Pipper told you it looked like Jasper was cursed, right? Couldn’t say what he knew about the Wild Hunt? It looks like this embargo on information is still ongoing, assuming it wasn’t the Wildlings who cursed him. I dare not speculate why…”
“If we knew about this whole…Wild Hunt deal…” She gestures about frustratedly. “We’d never have given the horn to Drusilia. Or helped Oriniax get her memories back. Yes, I was stupid, I take full responsibility for what happened, but how does holding back information help anyone?”
Zola feels something soft brush against her leg — a panther is padding past her towards Jaezred. He’lylbreia has transformed to their preferred beast form and they nuzzle him lovingly, purring for affection. He chuckles and kneels down to embrace the big shadow cat.
She crosses her arms. “If the fey lords and ladies wanted to keep all of this hidden, then they should’ve finished the job. We wouldn’t be in this mess if they did. We wouldn’t be worrying about the hind.”
That gives both Jaezred and He’lylbreia pause. The two look up at her in unison. “You just told me yourself that killing a Ceryneian hind would provoke the wrath of the gods,” he says.
When Zola doesn’t answer, he continues, “The Ceryneian hind is a fey spirit of nature, not unlike those that dwell in this very place.” He’lylbreia perks up their ears. “And it is sacred to all gods who reign over the natural world, of which Eilistraee is one. She is a goddess of the hunt. Would you be willing to anger the Dark Maiden?” He shakes his head and waves a dismissive hand. “You know what, don’t answer that. I do not wish to be implicated in whatever you intend to do.”
He turns away from her, rising to his feet to start cleaning He’lylbreia’s cave-shrine. She walks off in a random direction. She doesn’t know what she was saying, and she’ll probably regret it later.
She knows that she’s angrier at herself more than anyone for having been fooled, for letting it go this far, for potentially putting innocents in danger. It’s the sort of anger that almost makes one want to say fuck you to kings and gods alike.
She’ll probably regret it later.
Co-written with Riah and Anthony
Artworks from Pathfinder: Reign of Winter