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| The silver infused water was transformed into Mith'en. |
Showers drizzled through the rafters ceiling of
the long hall, filling the cistern with natural rainwater. Each night when the moon drifted past and
touched the wide pool, the silver infused water was transformed into
mith’en. The sound of thousands of
droplets rushing to course together in the pool was soothing to Ry’llia.
The
Citadel was not only under cover of natural overgrowth, but there were a series
of overlapping spells that had been cast upon the location, ensuring that it
stayed camouflaged. While it set the
minds of the residents within at ease, it only served to constantly remind the
noble lady that vigilance could never lapse, not for a second.
In
the forest, no one was safe from the eyes of the Bleak Queen. Her power slipped through branches and limbs,
playing hop-scotch amongst the shifting shadows of leaves. When the less defended fae had started to
disappear mysteriously, unrest grew amongst their population. Who would harm the common brownie? Yet they seemed to be getting plucked off by
the droves until one-by-one they straggled to find the Cal’edhellen.
Although
every fairy had their own sort of magic, the high elves have refined and
mastered the ars naturae. There was no
greater magic than what flowed in their halls.
By the codica neuma they were obligated to protect those with less - and
there was no way the simpler fae could stand up to the might of the Bleak Queen
to protect themselves.
“What
troubles thy brow, Amin Ry’llia?” the calm voice came from somewhere behind
arched beams, here in the cistern turret.
She recognized it by sound and was unalarmed.
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| Even in this last bastion against the Bleak Queen the Fae are being glamour-starved to death. |
Her
finger tapped the surface of the aquasilver pool, sending a shimmering ripple
to the other shore. “What few risk their
lives to reside with the resistance,” she swept her arm across the open room,
“even in this last bastion against the Bleak Queen, they are glamour-starving
slowly to death.”
“Not
even the greatest seers in the Verdant Forest were able to foretell these
events.” offered the hidden companion.
“It
doesn’t change the fact that the Withering is killing us and we have nothing
next to a clue to explain why.” Ry’llia
drew herself into composure, sitting more still than the latent ripples in the
mirror-pool. “As long as the Bleak Queen
is able to sustain her dark glamour, while ours yet thins with every cycle of
the moon, we all atrophy toward extinction – even she.”
This
last fact seemed particularly disturbing to the nobella.
“The
Tuatha say that the great always seek opportunities to help others.”
“If
we do not fast learn from whence her power is sourced, our shields will falter
and she will kill us all for traitors to her throne.” Tucking a caramel-roan braid behind a pointed
ear, her words were very clear even in the shadows. “Murdered, we shall be able
to help no one.”
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