Big trouble in little Kantas
Sept 16, 2019 18:50:35 GMT
Grimes, Milo Brightmane, and 1 more like this
Post by Sunday on Sept 16, 2019 18:50:35 GMT
(12 Eleint 1496 DR. A few days after the events of this. Written with Jon.)
Walking parallel to the northernmost edge of the Feythorn, a few hours south of Daring, the firbolg’s long, loping gait eats up the uneven woodland floor as he approaches the area where Granny’s cottage once stood.
En-route, the ten-and-a-half-foot-tall figure stops here and there to mutter a few words over a tree’s ossifying roots or to examine a flower struggling to bloom. The closer he gets to his destination, the more the flora seems to be struggling to grow, becoming less and less vibrant; the wildlife becoming a little scarcer and harder to spot.
Eventually, the faint sounds of someone - or something - singing reaches his uncommonly perceptive ears and interrupts his ministrations. Straightening up from tending to a small thicket of ferns smelling strongly of rot, the firbolg smiles faintly as he recognises the voice of his newest neighbour - if proximity can count for anything in this vast forest. He turns and walks over to the young dire wolf that has been stalking behind him. “Come, Krigga.” With a slight gesture, he brings the creature to heel.
Rounding an ailing set of birch trees, he stops at the lip of a large, shallow depression about 200ft across. The floor of the hollow is mostly barren, sparsely strewn with a few instances of brown-green life visible through the churned and arid earth. The sweet, cloying smell of decomposition and putrefaction lies heavy on the air.
Near the middle of this graveyard of vegetation kneels a small figure: a purple tiefling clad in a simple cornflower-blue robe that is rucked and dirtied from her labour. She moves about on hands and knees ripping up dead and decaying plants, tossing them onto a growing pile behind her. As she works, she is humming a simple tune, breaking into the odd phrase or audible lyric now and again.
"……in the moondance……
………
……I cannot leave this place……
……a strain of song in the forest……
…………
……follow where you lead…"
Sitting back on her haunches, she stretches slowly, joints popping and cracking audible. Slowly turning her head from side to side to work out an especially stubborn knot of stiffness, she catches sight of the firbolg standing at the edge of the tree-line, resting on his unusually tall and gnarled staff. She waves him over and stands up, brushing off what dirt she can from the front of her robe.
Abandoning her attempts to clean her clothes as he approaches, the tiefling adjusts the circlet she wears to keep her long blonde hair out of her face. A simple band of copper, it is hand-woven through with various bright-petalled flowers and pleasant-smelling herbs: close by now, the firbolg can make out sprigs and clippings of purple iris, sage, holly, and lotus flower amongst the foliage adorning the item - vegetation long associated with ancient wisdom, love of learning, and great knowledge.
“I’m getting there, Big. Slowly,” she says, gesturing to encompass the denuded glade, “but surely. How’re you?”
“Slowly but surely indeed! Your efforts here are noted, and it is a reminder that not all who are as passionate, are as blessed.” The firbolg steps down into the dirt, “Too often I take my talents for granted, and you are a much needed reminder of the simple pleasures. But, to answer your question: I am fine, thank you for asking, Sunday. And how are you?” With this Krigga also rounds the trees and approaches the pair.
Sunday smiles warmly up at Big, standing as he does at more than twice her size. “Simple is a good word, neighbour. You know, I’m still getting used to finding and nurturing the life in all things - nothing as deep or profound as your abilities, mind you. I think this small task suits me well.”
As she’s speaking, Sunday moves over to the pile of culled plants. She sweeps up a few loose leaves with her bare feet before looking around her. “Damn. I left my tinder and flint behind. I don’t suppose you could…?” And she gestures towards the pile. Big nods, whispers something to the end of his staff and as he points the tip down into the pile it starts to glow like embers, lighting a fire among the dead plants. The debris is consumed quickly as it is engulfed in magical flames.
“I don’t doubt you and your family could accomplish the renewal of this place a lot quicker than I,” Sunday continues, “But I welcome the opportunity to put a few things right. To repair some of the damage Granny did to our home. The damage I didn’t prevent.” Sunday looks around the blighted clearing. “Anyway, I think that’s enough for today. It doesn’t feel right to replant just yet. Would you agree?”
With another mumble from Big, the ashen remains of the bonfire start to cool as the magical fire is snuffed, and the embers start to die out. Big nods again at Sunday, “You’re right, with time comes healing. It’s not always best to rush over things. Time and care are the greatest healers.” He smiles at Sunday, adding “and you’re providing a lot of both.”
Sunday smiles faintly at the compliment, looking as though she accepts Big’s words but doesn’t really believe them herself. “Time and care… Well, in that case, do you have time for something to drink and would you care for a bite to eat? I haven’t shown you my glade yet, have I?”
“I’ve yet to see it. We’ve given you some time and space, as I’ve found that not everyone is always as close, or open as our clan is.” He pauses a moment, “I was waiting for an invitation.”
Sunday chuckles fondly, stamping out the last of the burning embers with her feet, impervious to any remaining heat. “Most polite of you. Come on, it’s this way.”
After walking for around 500ft or so, the stream starts to widen slightly and curves left out of sight behind a particularly large weeping willow. Sunday veers right, passing close by and then around the other side of the trunk of the gigantic tree. Big follows and finds himself standing at the top of a small mound, its surface striated and broken up by the mass of the tree’s sprawling roots. A typically slender species, this willow’s trunk is in fact incredibly vast and gnarled. Looking up, Big can see it stretches into the sky rising at least 80ft off the ground, its many delicate tresses are hanging low over the dappled surface of the water and swaying ever so gently in the early autumn breeze.
Spreading out below the tree is a sheltered glade running from the base of the mound right up to the edge of the stream. About 60ft in diameter, the floor of the glade is soft loam and moss strewn with wild flora: crocii, bluebells, the same purple irises in Sunday’s diadem, foxgloves, and Blazing Star and Cardinal flowers. A few rocks of various sizes protrude from the earth in random places. In the centre of the clearing is a small ring of river stones, worn flat and smooth by the passage of water over time; the ashes of a recent fire sit inside the circle - a simple, box-like construction made from clay lies to one side of the ring. Resting against a low rocky outcropping by the water’s edge is a suit of armour, crafted from bark, and two identical hammers. A pair of giant red boots have been slung carelessly to one side. A long, cloth-wrapped bundle - a weapon of some kind? - leans against the base of the mound.
Descending into the glade, Sunday strips off her dirty robe and pulls a fresh green-coloured garment from a recess in the mound beneath the tree. Donning this, she rummages around for a moment before pulling out a clay mug and looking up at Big.
“Tea?”
Big turns to face Sunday, “Yes, thank you... Or is it ‘yes, please’? Some little things in Faerûnian conversation still escape me.” As Sunday turns back to fetch another cup, Big descends into the glade and his height is noticeably changed as he reduces himself to a slightly more hospitable, but still quite tall, size, joining Sunday.
Sunday turns back and sees the altered firbolg standing before her. She claps her hands together once, laughing loudly, “Wonderful! I used to love doing that trick all the time.” As she claps, the cups fall from her hands, and her tail whips to catch both as they tumble towards the ground, rose-bud tip snaking through their handles. “Please, have a seat.” Sunday gestures to the various rocks dotted about the glade.
Big plants his backside firmly onto the soft ground, and Krigga lays down beside him, resting her head on his knee. Big’s left hand reaches to pet Krigga’s head. “Your own blend, or something from town? I keep meaning to go back there, but the Witchhold and its awful inhabitants were keeping us away, and even now we’re still dealing with the fallout.”
As he’s talking, Sunday fetches a small kettle from the recess in the mound and crosses the glade to fill it with water from the stream. Big notices a number of flasks, bottles, and containers strewn amongst the reeds at the river’s edge. Some are full - the liquid within seeming not just to reflect the fading sunlight, but faintly glowing with an internal luminescence of their own; others are empty. Sunday carries the kettle over to the ring of small stones and old ash, and places it in the centre, before looking over at Big, “Could I trouble you again for a light..?”
As the water starts to bubble away, Sunday sits on the edge of a rock, folding her arms into the sleeves of her plain robe and resting them on knees tucked up under her chin, and gazes into the stream.
“Is something else troubling you, Sunday?” Big asks quietly after a few minutes of silence, just above the sound of the campfire and steam.
Shaken out of her reverie, Sunday answers with a crooked smile, “Something other than trying to fight the endemic corruption that’s taken root?” waving her hand to encompass… herself? ...the wider forest? ...Kantas? It is unclear. Sunday hops down from the rock and wanders over to a patch of herbs growing by the water’s edge. She plucks a few leaves, glances over her shoulder at Big - as though weighing him up - and plucks a few more. Dropping them into the clay mugs, she goes to the kettle and dips a finger into the boiling water to test it - satisfied, she fills each mug about two-thirds of the way and brings one over to Big.
Resettling herself on her seat, she turns her mind back over their conversation. “You should come back and see Daring now. It’s grown. Sometimes, I think it’s wilder than our home here. So many creatures from so many places. They’ve had to start building a new town by the coast - just to accommodate everyone who’s drawn here. I had no idea the world was this big! Worlds, I suppose...” She trails off and watches Krigga get up and potter over to something fluttering about a patch of flowers. Sunday looks across at her tranquil companion.
“Maybe don’t visit Daring just yet, actually. Lots of nasty things popping up all over the place at the moment. I mean, we could do with your curative help,” She shivers, “as I can smell blood on the horizon; but it might not be an enjoyable return after being away for… how long did you say it was?”
Big closes his eyes for a moment to think, “Maybe 18 moons? I only spent a short time in town, but I was drawn back home when the Witchhold took root.” Big pauses for a moment, “I’ve spent more time meaning to return than I ever did in town.” The pup is playing with the fluttering creature, play-biting, trying to catch it in its mouth.
“Ha. Always the way. Something comes along then something else then something else - then you turn around and the seeds you planted only yesterday are taller than...well...almost as tall as you. How’s the rest of the family? Is their work almost done?”
Resting his staff on his shoulder, Big makes a wide gesture with his arms, and looks around. “This forest is a… funny thing. We consider ourselves ‘guardians’; of this forest, it’s inhabitants, and it’s visitors. These woods do not always need protecting, sometimes it is others who need protecting from these woods.” As he’s speaking, Krigga makes a whimpering sound, as she is attacked by the fluttering creature. She retreats to Big, who offers sympathy and affection to the young dire wolf.
Sunday tilts her head to one side, working her way through what Big is saying. She nods slowly. “Daring is kinda like a forest, then? Sometimes the inhabitants need protecting from what’s around them; and sometimes the town needs protecting from the inhabitants.” Big nods, not so much at Sunday but to himself as he takes in Sunday’s words as she continues speaking. “And there are a lot of threats to both the town and its people at the moment, you know; and not much protecting happening. There’s never been much of an organised defence of the town: the Orc invasion proved that. And I’m not sure what the Council has been doing in that regard over the intervening years. Varis is trying to do something, I suppose - in his own inimitable way - did you ever meet him?” Sunday doesn’t pause, the words pouring from her like milk from an upended jug. “But one creature isn’t enough. And it’s not just Daring under threat anymore. Some incredibly powerful fiends have taken an interest in Kantas. I can sense them circling up from below. Like vultures. They’re breaking through all over the place: Daring; New Hillborough; some islands across the sea - even the Angelbark isn’t safe anymore. No-one really has any idea what’s coming. Certainly not me. But I’m beginning to weave the threads together; and the picture that’s emerging terrifies me.”
Big interjects while Sunday takes a breath. “Fiends. I know only a little, through old clan tales, about them. We have been blessed with little to no known activity among my clan for many generations, at least in the forest. What you’re telling me is troubling, and I think the most troubling part is that we don’t know what to do.”
“Our ignorance is our biggest weakness,” Sunday replies. “And anyone who says it is a bliss is a fool. We’re trying to rectify that, though. A few of us went looking for answers in Sigil. We mostly came away with more questions. But it’s a start. And the more we know about these creatures and what they’re planning, the better chance we have of surviving. The better chance this wondrous forest has of staying free from their sway.”
Sunday looks around the glade in simple reverence before turning back to Big.
“You probably wouldn’t have heard about the coordinated attack a tenday back or so. Some powerful entities appeared at once in different locations in Daring. Turns out they’d been sent from the sixth realm of Hell to search for me and Varis. They’d been sent to track us down and kill us. I think they were sent by Glasya - my aunt’s best friend: she rules the Sixth. That’s the second time I’ve come across a minion of hers recently; the first time was when I and some friends found an abandoned Yuan-Ti shrine. Added to that,” and Sunday gestures to the huge cloth-wrapped bundle leaning against the base of the mound. “Minions of Zariel - she’s the ruler of Avernus, the first layer of the Hells, by the way - running around Kantas with cursed swords and we’ve got a total fucking nightmare. By my reckoning, the First and Sixth layers of the Hells are lining up to sink their teeth in Kantas. Not to mention beasts being sent from Phlegethos, the Fourth layer...my birthright...”
Big tilts his head slightly in reaction. “I was not aware how closely tied to the fiends you are, Sunday. My limited understanding was that your kind was more of an ancestral bloodline that would appear in some generations?”
Sunday nods. “That can occur amongst creatures native to this plane - traits and features lie dormant for years and then appear in otherwise-human families. But those of us considered,”
Sunday spits out the word in bitter self-denunciation, “
”*
The air seeming to sizzle on contact with the harsh, grating syllables resounding like stygian nails scraped across adamantium.
“We’re born in the Hells themselves to families who can count back unbroken lineages to Asmodeus’ descent. And mine just happens to rule Phlegethos, the Fourth layer of the Hells… a coincidence..?”
Sunday trails off before shaking her head sadly. “You spoke about protecting people and places from one another… I don’t know if I’ve become a liability to Daring or not, Big. Am I the forest or the guardian now?”
“There is a lesson that our Elder taught me long ago, that I think you should hear.” Big mutters to his staff again, places the end into the fire pit and the fire becomes alive with a great crackling.
“A fight is going on inside me, It is a terrible fight between two wolves.” Big says to Sunday. As he says this the sound of wolves comes from the fire pit, and within the flames the image of two wolves fighting dances in the flickering flames.
“One is evil – he is anfal, blad, blod, fare… anger, envy, sorrow, regret, greed, arrogance, self-pity, guilt, resentment, inferiority, lies, false pride, superiority, and ego.” He continues, interspersing his Common with words of Giant. “the other is good – he is bapart, hild, hjerte, huslyd… joy, peace, love, hope, serenity, humility, kindness, benevolence, empathy, generosity, truth, compassion, and faith.” Big takes the staff from the fire pit and points it towards Sunday. “The same fight is going on inside you – and inside every other person, too.”
Sunday stares into the fire, near and far-off flames reflected in her bright eyes. “Which wolf will win?”
The old firbolg simply replies, “The one you feed.”
*Śud'dha rakta** - ‘pure of blood’ in Mabrahoring.
**This phrase is taken from the real-world Marathi language. My apologies to the Marathi people: I don’t think you’re fiendish; just that your language sounds awesome!
Walking parallel to the northernmost edge of the Feythorn, a few hours south of Daring, the firbolg’s long, loping gait eats up the uneven woodland floor as he approaches the area where Granny’s cottage once stood.
En-route, the ten-and-a-half-foot-tall figure stops here and there to mutter a few words over a tree’s ossifying roots or to examine a flower struggling to bloom. The closer he gets to his destination, the more the flora seems to be struggling to grow, becoming less and less vibrant; the wildlife becoming a little scarcer and harder to spot.
Eventually, the faint sounds of someone - or something - singing reaches his uncommonly perceptive ears and interrupts his ministrations. Straightening up from tending to a small thicket of ferns smelling strongly of rot, the firbolg smiles faintly as he recognises the voice of his newest neighbour - if proximity can count for anything in this vast forest. He turns and walks over to the young dire wolf that has been stalking behind him. “Come, Krigga.” With a slight gesture, he brings the creature to heel.
Rounding an ailing set of birch trees, he stops at the lip of a large, shallow depression about 200ft across. The floor of the hollow is mostly barren, sparsely strewn with a few instances of brown-green life visible through the churned and arid earth. The sweet, cloying smell of decomposition and putrefaction lies heavy on the air.
Near the middle of this graveyard of vegetation kneels a small figure: a purple tiefling clad in a simple cornflower-blue robe that is rucked and dirtied from her labour. She moves about on hands and knees ripping up dead and decaying plants, tossing them onto a growing pile behind her. As she works, she is humming a simple tune, breaking into the odd phrase or audible lyric now and again.
"……in the moondance……
………
……I cannot leave this place……
……a strain of song in the forest……
…………
……follow where you lead…"
Sitting back on her haunches, she stretches slowly, joints popping and cracking audible. Slowly turning her head from side to side to work out an especially stubborn knot of stiffness, she catches sight of the firbolg standing at the edge of the tree-line, resting on his unusually tall and gnarled staff. She waves him over and stands up, brushing off what dirt she can from the front of her robe.
Abandoning her attempts to clean her clothes as he approaches, the tiefling adjusts the circlet she wears to keep her long blonde hair out of her face. A simple band of copper, it is hand-woven through with various bright-petalled flowers and pleasant-smelling herbs: close by now, the firbolg can make out sprigs and clippings of purple iris, sage, holly, and lotus flower amongst the foliage adorning the item - vegetation long associated with ancient wisdom, love of learning, and great knowledge.
“I’m getting there, Big. Slowly,” she says, gesturing to encompass the denuded glade, “but surely. How’re you?”
“Slowly but surely indeed! Your efforts here are noted, and it is a reminder that not all who are as passionate, are as blessed.” The firbolg steps down into the dirt, “Too often I take my talents for granted, and you are a much needed reminder of the simple pleasures. But, to answer your question: I am fine, thank you for asking, Sunday. And how are you?” With this Krigga also rounds the trees and approaches the pair.
Sunday smiles warmly up at Big, standing as he does at more than twice her size. “Simple is a good word, neighbour. You know, I’m still getting used to finding and nurturing the life in all things - nothing as deep or profound as your abilities, mind you. I think this small task suits me well.”
As she’s speaking, Sunday moves over to the pile of culled plants. She sweeps up a few loose leaves with her bare feet before looking around her. “Damn. I left my tinder and flint behind. I don’t suppose you could…?” And she gestures towards the pile. Big nods, whispers something to the end of his staff and as he points the tip down into the pile it starts to glow like embers, lighting a fire among the dead plants. The debris is consumed quickly as it is engulfed in magical flames.
“I don’t doubt you and your family could accomplish the renewal of this place a lot quicker than I,” Sunday continues, “But I welcome the opportunity to put a few things right. To repair some of the damage Granny did to our home. The damage I didn’t prevent.” Sunday looks around the blighted clearing. “Anyway, I think that’s enough for today. It doesn’t feel right to replant just yet. Would you agree?”
With another mumble from Big, the ashen remains of the bonfire start to cool as the magical fire is snuffed, and the embers start to die out. Big nods again at Sunday, “You’re right, with time comes healing. It’s not always best to rush over things. Time and care are the greatest healers.” He smiles at Sunday, adding “and you’re providing a lot of both.”
Sunday smiles faintly at the compliment, looking as though she accepts Big’s words but doesn’t really believe them herself. “Time and care… Well, in that case, do you have time for something to drink and would you care for a bite to eat? I haven’t shown you my glade yet, have I?”
“I’ve yet to see it. We’ve given you some time and space, as I’ve found that not everyone is always as close, or open as our clan is.” He pauses a moment, “I was waiting for an invitation.”
Sunday chuckles fondly, stamping out the last of the burning embers with her feet, impervious to any remaining heat. “Most polite of you. Come on, it’s this way.”
***
Leading her giant companion away from the corrupted dell, Sunday eventually picks out a path running alongside a softly burbling, gently winding stream. As they settle into an easy pace, the pair exchange no words, content to take in the sights and smells around them. Krigga weaves between Sunday and Big, leaning in for pets occasionally, and from time to time running off to investigate small animals. Hearing a nearby bird singing, Big removes a small stone blade from his belt and cuts a lock from his hair, holding it out before him as he responds to the bird in kind, who swoops in and takes the hair back to their nest. “A little late for the season.” Big says to himself.After walking for around 500ft or so, the stream starts to widen slightly and curves left out of sight behind a particularly large weeping willow. Sunday veers right, passing close by and then around the other side of the trunk of the gigantic tree. Big follows and finds himself standing at the top of a small mound, its surface striated and broken up by the mass of the tree’s sprawling roots. A typically slender species, this willow’s trunk is in fact incredibly vast and gnarled. Looking up, Big can see it stretches into the sky rising at least 80ft off the ground, its many delicate tresses are hanging low over the dappled surface of the water and swaying ever so gently in the early autumn breeze.
Spreading out below the tree is a sheltered glade running from the base of the mound right up to the edge of the stream. About 60ft in diameter, the floor of the glade is soft loam and moss strewn with wild flora: crocii, bluebells, the same purple irises in Sunday’s diadem, foxgloves, and Blazing Star and Cardinal flowers. A few rocks of various sizes protrude from the earth in random places. In the centre of the clearing is a small ring of river stones, worn flat and smooth by the passage of water over time; the ashes of a recent fire sit inside the circle - a simple, box-like construction made from clay lies to one side of the ring. Resting against a low rocky outcropping by the water’s edge is a suit of armour, crafted from bark, and two identical hammers. A pair of giant red boots have been slung carelessly to one side. A long, cloth-wrapped bundle - a weapon of some kind? - leans against the base of the mound.
Descending into the glade, Sunday strips off her dirty robe and pulls a fresh green-coloured garment from a recess in the mound beneath the tree. Donning this, she rummages around for a moment before pulling out a clay mug and looking up at Big.
“Tea?”
Big turns to face Sunday, “Yes, thank you... Or is it ‘yes, please’? Some little things in Faerûnian conversation still escape me.” As Sunday turns back to fetch another cup, Big descends into the glade and his height is noticeably changed as he reduces himself to a slightly more hospitable, but still quite tall, size, joining Sunday.
Sunday turns back and sees the altered firbolg standing before her. She claps her hands together once, laughing loudly, “Wonderful! I used to love doing that trick all the time.” As she claps, the cups fall from her hands, and her tail whips to catch both as they tumble towards the ground, rose-bud tip snaking through their handles. “Please, have a seat.” Sunday gestures to the various rocks dotted about the glade.
Big plants his backside firmly onto the soft ground, and Krigga lays down beside him, resting her head on his knee. Big’s left hand reaches to pet Krigga’s head. “Your own blend, or something from town? I keep meaning to go back there, but the Witchhold and its awful inhabitants were keeping us away, and even now we’re still dealing with the fallout.”
As he’s talking, Sunday fetches a small kettle from the recess in the mound and crosses the glade to fill it with water from the stream. Big notices a number of flasks, bottles, and containers strewn amongst the reeds at the river’s edge. Some are full - the liquid within seeming not just to reflect the fading sunlight, but faintly glowing with an internal luminescence of their own; others are empty. Sunday carries the kettle over to the ring of small stones and old ash, and places it in the centre, before looking over at Big, “Could I trouble you again for a light..?”
As the water starts to bubble away, Sunday sits on the edge of a rock, folding her arms into the sleeves of her plain robe and resting them on knees tucked up under her chin, and gazes into the stream.
“Is something else troubling you, Sunday?” Big asks quietly after a few minutes of silence, just above the sound of the campfire and steam.
Shaken out of her reverie, Sunday answers with a crooked smile, “Something other than trying to fight the endemic corruption that’s taken root?” waving her hand to encompass… herself? ...the wider forest? ...Kantas? It is unclear. Sunday hops down from the rock and wanders over to a patch of herbs growing by the water’s edge. She plucks a few leaves, glances over her shoulder at Big - as though weighing him up - and plucks a few more. Dropping them into the clay mugs, she goes to the kettle and dips a finger into the boiling water to test it - satisfied, she fills each mug about two-thirds of the way and brings one over to Big.
Resettling herself on her seat, she turns her mind back over their conversation. “You should come back and see Daring now. It’s grown. Sometimes, I think it’s wilder than our home here. So many creatures from so many places. They’ve had to start building a new town by the coast - just to accommodate everyone who’s drawn here. I had no idea the world was this big! Worlds, I suppose...” She trails off and watches Krigga get up and potter over to something fluttering about a patch of flowers. Sunday looks across at her tranquil companion.
“Maybe don’t visit Daring just yet, actually. Lots of nasty things popping up all over the place at the moment. I mean, we could do with your curative help,” She shivers, “as I can smell blood on the horizon; but it might not be an enjoyable return after being away for… how long did you say it was?”
Big closes his eyes for a moment to think, “Maybe 18 moons? I only spent a short time in town, but I was drawn back home when the Witchhold took root.” Big pauses for a moment, “I’ve spent more time meaning to return than I ever did in town.” The pup is playing with the fluttering creature, play-biting, trying to catch it in its mouth.
“Ha. Always the way. Something comes along then something else then something else - then you turn around and the seeds you planted only yesterday are taller than...well...almost as tall as you. How’s the rest of the family? Is their work almost done?”
Resting his staff on his shoulder, Big makes a wide gesture with his arms, and looks around. “This forest is a… funny thing. We consider ourselves ‘guardians’; of this forest, it’s inhabitants, and it’s visitors. These woods do not always need protecting, sometimes it is others who need protecting from these woods.” As he’s speaking, Krigga makes a whimpering sound, as she is attacked by the fluttering creature. She retreats to Big, who offers sympathy and affection to the young dire wolf.
Sunday tilts her head to one side, working her way through what Big is saying. She nods slowly. “Daring is kinda like a forest, then? Sometimes the inhabitants need protecting from what’s around them; and sometimes the town needs protecting from the inhabitants.” Big nods, not so much at Sunday but to himself as he takes in Sunday’s words as she continues speaking. “And there are a lot of threats to both the town and its people at the moment, you know; and not much protecting happening. There’s never been much of an organised defence of the town: the Orc invasion proved that. And I’m not sure what the Council has been doing in that regard over the intervening years. Varis is trying to do something, I suppose - in his own inimitable way - did you ever meet him?” Sunday doesn’t pause, the words pouring from her like milk from an upended jug. “But one creature isn’t enough. And it’s not just Daring under threat anymore. Some incredibly powerful fiends have taken an interest in Kantas. I can sense them circling up from below. Like vultures. They’re breaking through all over the place: Daring; New Hillborough; some islands across the sea - even the Angelbark isn’t safe anymore. No-one really has any idea what’s coming. Certainly not me. But I’m beginning to weave the threads together; and the picture that’s emerging terrifies me.”
Big interjects while Sunday takes a breath. “Fiends. I know only a little, through old clan tales, about them. We have been blessed with little to no known activity among my clan for many generations, at least in the forest. What you’re telling me is troubling, and I think the most troubling part is that we don’t know what to do.”
“Our ignorance is our biggest weakness,” Sunday replies. “And anyone who says it is a bliss is a fool. We’re trying to rectify that, though. A few of us went looking for answers in Sigil. We mostly came away with more questions. But it’s a start. And the more we know about these creatures and what they’re planning, the better chance we have of surviving. The better chance this wondrous forest has of staying free from their sway.”
Sunday looks around the glade in simple reverence before turning back to Big.
“You probably wouldn’t have heard about the coordinated attack a tenday back or so. Some powerful entities appeared at once in different locations in Daring. Turns out they’d been sent from the sixth realm of Hell to search for me and Varis. They’d been sent to track us down and kill us. I think they were sent by Glasya - my aunt’s best friend: she rules the Sixth. That’s the second time I’ve come across a minion of hers recently; the first time was when I and some friends found an abandoned Yuan-Ti shrine. Added to that,” and Sunday gestures to the huge cloth-wrapped bundle leaning against the base of the mound. “Minions of Zariel - she’s the ruler of Avernus, the first layer of the Hells, by the way - running around Kantas with cursed swords and we’ve got a total fucking nightmare. By my reckoning, the First and Sixth layers of the Hells are lining up to sink their teeth in Kantas. Not to mention beasts being sent from Phlegethos, the Fourth layer...my birthright...”
Big tilts his head slightly in reaction. “I was not aware how closely tied to the fiends you are, Sunday. My limited understanding was that your kind was more of an ancestral bloodline that would appear in some generations?”
Sunday nods. “That can occur amongst creatures native to this plane - traits and features lie dormant for years and then appear in otherwise-human families. But those of us considered,”
Sunday spits out the word in bitter self-denunciation, “
”*The air seeming to sizzle on contact with the harsh, grating syllables resounding like stygian nails scraped across adamantium.
“We’re born in the Hells themselves to families who can count back unbroken lineages to Asmodeus’ descent. And mine just happens to rule Phlegethos, the Fourth layer of the Hells… a coincidence..?”
Sunday trails off before shaking her head sadly. “You spoke about protecting people and places from one another… I don’t know if I’ve become a liability to Daring or not, Big. Am I the forest or the guardian now?”
“There is a lesson that our Elder taught me long ago, that I think you should hear.” Big mutters to his staff again, places the end into the fire pit and the fire becomes alive with a great crackling.
“A fight is going on inside me, It is a terrible fight between two wolves.” Big says to Sunday. As he says this the sound of wolves comes from the fire pit, and within the flames the image of two wolves fighting dances in the flickering flames.
“One is evil – he is anfal, blad, blod, fare… anger, envy, sorrow, regret, greed, arrogance, self-pity, guilt, resentment, inferiority, lies, false pride, superiority, and ego.” He continues, interspersing his Common with words of Giant. “the other is good – he is bapart, hild, hjerte, huslyd… joy, peace, love, hope, serenity, humility, kindness, benevolence, empathy, generosity, truth, compassion, and faith.” Big takes the staff from the fire pit and points it towards Sunday. “The same fight is going on inside you – and inside every other person, too.”
Sunday stares into the fire, near and far-off flames reflected in her bright eyes. “Which wolf will win?”
The old firbolg simply replies, “The one you feed.”
---
*Śud'dha rakta** - ‘pure of blood’ in Mabrahoring.
**This phrase is taken from the real-world Marathi language. My apologies to the Marathi people: I don’t think you’re fiendish; just that your language sounds awesome!