Buying and Selling
Endataurëo stands largely empty. Nelyafinwë had thundered out astride his horse, accompanied by workmen and warriors, as well as all of what most people considered the 'leadership', save Solas and Ranger.
Of the remaining two, the latter had disappeared into his room, and none knew what happened within, for magic shuttered the windows and barred the door. Ranger meanwhile, had vanished to lead the local hunters in watching for potential any spiders that escaped the warriors.
For Matin's part, he found himself loading his cart early. Given the battle taking place, he doubted any of the merchants he was expecting would be arriving. Most of the others, including his one time apprentice, were nervously waiting for news, but he knew that when the soldiers returned, they would expect pay.
"Don't spend time about nobles." Martin grumbles to himself. "They'll take and take until there's nothing left to give, or worse infect you with their insane ideas."
His grumbling and loading is interrupted by a call from one of the Dalish maids, who has taken to watching from the towers.
"Elves! Elves approach! Dalish warriors and merchants!" She squeals in excitement.
True to her words the, admittedly heavily escorted, Dalish merchants arrive at the usual time.
"This only proves my point." Martin grumbles as he glances warily at the hard eyed elves armed with bows and swords, the sigil of a stag's head on their armour.
Delora had been born in the city, and she had lived there most of her life. As she grew up, she had heard tales of the Dalish, of their unearned sense of superiority and their barbarous ways. Naturally, a young Delora had been scared of the tales of the tattooed elves of the forest.
Her time within the forest had given her a different perspective on her distant kin. Merchants, still tattooed, yet otherwise so familiar. Within the walls of Endataurëo it was easy to imagine she was at the markets of Denerim, better even, for the Dalish never tried to cheat her or claim she was a thief.
Now the warriors that had kept watch on the walls were gone, and the courtyard was filled with visions of her childhood fears made real. Tattooed warriors glared at her as she walked towards them, and she was acutely aware that if they decided to kill her, or rob her, there was nothing she could do to stop them.
Delora put up her best front, glaring back at the warriors as though daring them to fight her. One in particular met her gaze, a blonde elf who looked deeply annoyed to be here. Time seemed to fall away as they stared, Delora's fists clenched and the blonde male's lips curled into the beginnings of a snarl.
Martin's hand on her shoulder jolted her from her staring contest. "Delora, why don't you go see about that list Nelyafinwë left us."
Delora glares suspiciously at the older trader. "You're letting me go alone? Not scared I'll run off with the money this time?"
"I never said…" The human begins defensively.
The elf sneers, he had never needed to say anything on the matter for her to know.
"Look, could you just go?" Martin says tiredly. "It'll save us both some time."
"Fine. I'm going." Delora spits, secretly glad to have an excuse to be out while the Dalish are here.
As the young elf storms towards her cart, Marin shakes his head.
"Last time I try to do something nice for that girl." He grumbles to himself.
Delora curses loudly as a cartwheel bounces off a branch on the road, causing her to bounce painfully on her seat. Immediately afterwards, she looks about in fear. The looming trees seem filled with danger, yet seconds become minutes, and nothing emerges to attack her.
"It's like the trees are alive." She says to her mule. "Like they're watching me."
The mule says nothing because it was an animal.
Delora shudders. "It gives me the chills. Maybe I should have waited for the round ear."
She was hardly Martin's biggest fan, but the idea of having someone she could sacrifice to the angry tree gods sounds appealing right now. Even just having someone to talk to would be better than this tense, oppressive silence.
To distract herself from such thoughts, the young elf reviews her instructions again. Her boss was recruiting more warriors, and they were going to need to be equipped. If it proved to expensive, she'd have to make a call on what was more important out of armour or weapons, but best case scenario she'd equip them fully.
She travelled around to the local villages, fulfilling orders for wine as she does so. Contrary to her expectations, she hears no news of a strangely dressed, tall elf recruiting warriors.
For a short time, Delora is uncertain what to do. If she gives up without trying, she suspects she will soon be out on her ear. Yet, she also doesn't want to get taken for a ride by some human bigot.
Eventually, without a good option in sight, she takes the one she finds least offensive. She knows that there is a knight who trains the heavy infantry and makes a stop there to find out if he knows where the recruits are.
To her immense relief it turns out he had the recruits she was after and getting them equipped proved to be easily within budget. There was only one small downside.
"I say there were nearly a dozen hydra, but I wasn't afraid!" The Tevinter man said to the humans, not acknowledging her even once during their trip to Endataurëo. "I took up the torch, that I always carry in my pack, and swiftly plunged into a nearby pot of oil…"
Delora groaned, resisting the urge to hit the racist braggart upside the head.
Her mule ignored both of them, it was far too sensible to get involved.
Vengeance for the Trees!
Ever spare scrap of time you dedicate to the situation as you understand it from the reports. While any plans or assumptions will naturally change once you witness the battlefield in question, not having a plan when you arrive is simply going to cause more problems than it solves. Such is the paradox of tactics.
From the report given to you at the end of last week, the spiders are specifically targeting your rangers. Somehow, through whatever dark intelligence they have inherited, they know the Perisilima is what is driving them into a corner.
You assume that the creatures require dark magic to some extent to survive. Turko had once explained something about spiders only being able to grow so big for some bizarre biological reason. That had been during one of his darker alcohol fuelled revenge fantasies that had been common after the Darkening of Valinor, so how accurate that statement is cannot be known.
Regardless of the reasoning, the Perisilima is their objective, which is partly what is giving the rangers trouble. Traditional warfare concerns itself with space, controlling ground and movement. Between the thick canopy of trees and the fact that the spiders care nothing for losing or gaining ground, it is a unique challenge to combat them.
The trees would be a problem even in a more conventional conflict. Restricting the ability of your cavalry to make use of their mobility, as well as giving the spiders flanking opportunities unrivalled by flightless beings, the thick trunks enable the use of webbing as a trap against your forces.
Supply routes are likely to remain a non-concern in this fight thankfully. Spiders do not need them, hunters by nature, and if this fight lasts longer than a week you will officially be abdicating as a prince of the Noldor.
That said, the need to hunt will likely prevent the spiders from bringing the full weight of their numbers against you, unless they win a battle with enough casualties to feed themselves.
With your disadvantages established, it is time to look at your advantage. Firstly if this fight drags on, you can cancel the numbers advantage by calling on the Dalish and the Chasind, though you would prefer to avoid doing so.
Secondly, your warriors are simply better than the spiders. Whatever vestiges of intelligence the beasts retain cannot match even the mabari mind, and training will defeat instinct in any even contest.
The third advantage is of course equipment. Steel will pierce carapace and has far higher chance of repelling fangs in turn. The Mabari give you unparalleled ability to scout and engage on your terms.
The final consideration is, as usual, magic. While at first glance it seems to be solely on your side, with two mages and a Noldor Prince, the lack of presence of the Sylvans worries you. That is not even accounting for whatever fell power Ungweliente, or this universe's equivalent, passed onto her children.
The last consideration is your objective. Ultimately you want this forest clear of spiders, the only question is how to achieve this. If Turko was right, and you have remembered his words correctly, simply removing the magic will see them leave or perish. It is not the same as killing every last one personally, but victory is victory.
All of these factors considered, you have a plan for how you will be attempting to put an end to this struggle once and for all.
Everything considered, your best option is to take up a defensive position. As much as you would like to take the initiative and drive the spiders to battle by assaulting their nest, the numbers are not currently in your favour.
Had you your host at your back, made of proud Noldorin warriors you would fear nothing these creatures might do. Yet you do not, instead you have a handful of humans trained to a barely acceptable standard.
The rhythmic tramp of your warriors' boots striking the soil echoes through the trees. You loosen your shoulders as your ears catch the baying of hounds. You have almost arrived, and you need to be ready.
As far as fighting retreats go, you have seen worst, Námo knows you have commanded worse. Anneth makes acceptable use of the Mabari, having them engage when the spiders grow to close, then covering their retreat with arrows. Given how few of the latter each ranger has at this point, it is fortunate you arrived when you did, else things might have been much worse.
"Merrill, can you clear a path for them?" You ask conversationally as the Mabari drag down a spider.
"Merrill raises an eyebrow and begins to chant.
Just as the Mabari begin to fall back at a whistle from Anneth, Merrill finishes her chant and fire blooms in the gap the dogs made. The smell of charring carapace fouls the air, and the creatures of darkness scuttle back in fear.
For your part, you allow the Light of Valinor to shine as far as you can manage. The infantry straighten in place, cheering and mocking the cowering beasts. The rangers look relieved and hopeful. The spiders chitter and hiss, clearly wavering on whether to retreat or not.
In the reprieve, Anneth rides up to you, the Persilima hanging from her wrist, still glowing with the Light of Aman.
"Sir! It's good to see you." She says, saluting. "I wasn't expecting you."
"I came as soon as I could." You reply. "I think it is time for us to fall back and regroup, before the beasts regain their courage or whatever passes for it among their misbegotten kind."
"Yes sir!" Anneth replies.
Turco's barks are suspiciously similar in cadence, and frankly you are still unnerved by the assertion that they understand speech.
Among those who fought beside you in Beleriand, it was not uncommon for them to gain a second wind on your arrival. Born of long experience and faith in your abilities such things were only to be expected. What you did not expect, was the same reaction from the rangers and Mabari.
At your command they withdraw to the best of their abilities. Merrill sending occasional spells towards the spiders to ensure they do not shift from shadowing you to attacking. Turco barks in a way that indicates he knows a place to set up even as Xandar and the Medics try to examine people on the march.
Soon the small force reaches the clearing on the hill that Turco was leading you to. Quick instructions see people turning to digging ditches and setting up ramparts. You do not have time for proper fortifications but giving yourselves a height advantage and creating a circle to prevent outflanking is better than nothing.
Anneth keeps glancing at the spiders who still watch from the tree line. "What are they waiting for?"
Your eyes follow hers, senses stretched out as you consider what they might be waiting for.
"They await the return of their flanking force, and I suspect those who until now have been hunting." You state frankly. "With my arrival and that of reinforcements, they are all but certain they cannot break us without their full might."
"What flanking force?" Anneth asks.
"The one they sent scuttling through the tops of the trees to cut off your retreat." You explain. "I cannot be certain there was one, but I would be deeply surprised if there was not. It is a classic hunting tactic in forests."
Anneth's face goes pale. "I never even thought about it. Maker, what if you'd been late, I'd have led us right into a trap!"
"Do not concern yourself with what might have been, for not even the wisest can see all ends." You remind her gently. "Perhaps it would be as you say, or perhaps you would have seen it at the last minute and turned it against them."
Anneth tires visibly to steady herself. You give her time, such things tend to hit hard and matters are not yet so urgent as to demand her immediate attention.
"Merrill, mass destruction or support?" You call out to your student.
Your only mage, Xandar does not count, spends a few moments thinking then calls back, "Mass Destruction!"
"Get a platform built atop the hill she can see from!" You order. "Make it as high as you dare!"
Turning back to Anneth, you find her somewhat calmer but still visibly disturbed.
"Come." You say, placing a hand on her shoulder. "It is time to focus on the present. Our enemies will be upon us soon, this will be the final battle of this skirmish."
Anneth swallow nervously, and nods. A rustling comes from the trees. In the gloom you can see a massive spider, bloated and pale to whom all others defer, it seems the enemy commander has arrived.
Hissing and chittering heralds a wave of webs that send warriors diving behind embankments for cover. Your blade parts those that come close to you as you head to your position for the coming fight.
Eldar princes lead from the front, Noldor kings are the first to face any danger to their people. You have been both, thus you rush to a position atop the rampart facing the great spider, such that when it takes the field, you will be there to meet it.
"Warriors of Endatuarëo!" You cry. "Now is the hour, purge the darkness from your land, and free your home!"
As pre battle speeches go, it is a touch brief for your taste, but there is a horde of giant spiders charging your position, and you suspect they will appreciate not having their attention divided.
From her elevated position, Merrill has a clear shot at the approaching swarm. As the first wave clears the cover of the trees you hear her begin her chant. Your focus is on the foe, so you are not certain what she says.
With your eyes on the spiders, you see the first embers begin to swirl, but between one blink and the next a twisting column of flame has erupted in the thickest patch of the beasts. Much as creatures of darkness in Arda, they seem to have a particular aversion to fire.
Spiders scream and chitin cracks in the heat. Nearly a dozen spiders die in the initial blaze, and as the column continues to spin, more follow them into whatever afterlife awaits them. Even as the column fades, leaving a faint afterimage before your gaze, another ball of fire, smaller but no less deadly, strikes another knot.
Had you the time, you would wax lyrical about Merrill's abilities, and how they are already swaying the battle in your favour by denying the beasts the ability to mass together. Unfortunately, you do not have long to contemplate much of anything.
Rangers loose the last of their arrows at the absolute last minutes as the scattered remnants of the first wave reach the rampart.
In most circumstances you would charge forward to meet the beasts. As it is, you wait for them to reach your defences and rush to meet the first of their climbers. Frustratingly, being spiders, they are relatively unimpeded by having to climb, but the range advantage is appreciated.
"Á ahtar I Atta Aldar![1]" You scream, as you bury your blade in the swiftest of the beasts.
From there you soon fall into the mindset such combat brings. A sense of absolute focus that makes the rest of the world, that which is beyond the battle, seem distant and unreal. Spiders scramble in a chaotic mass, and you rush to wherever the line is most pressed.
Far too soon, the spiders withdraw, or simply stop advancing. Your eyes scan the trees, suspicious of a trap.
Sure enough, the spiders are massing on one side of the clearing, preparing a massed assault. You wave those who are moving to reinforce that side back, certain that there is some twist to this gambit.
Merrill continues to provide support, breaking up a portion of the rushing arachnids and slaying many before they reach the walls. Despite this, her magic has lost some of its power, as a dark will sets itself against her.
The great spider, the mother of most of the smaller ones rushing against you, scuttles forward, faint wisps of dark power clinging to its shell. Your infantry lock shields and lash out at the spiders, while you aid where you can.
With a shriek of triumph the great spider rushes forward, from behind you heard the yells of surprise and battle cries. The sound of steel on wood, and the cracking sound of breaking branches confirms your worst fears. The Sylvans have attacked from the other direction.
You have no time to aid them, for the great beast, who you are deciding to call Ungwamil[2] is upon you.
Chitinous jaws lash out at you, and you dance aside only to throw yourself to the ground as Ungwamil swings her great bulk to crush you. You roll beneath her, dodging claws as the stab down at you, springing to your feet on the other side.
For a moment you think you have the advantage, but your plan to attack the pale abdomen is interrupted by a suicidal attack from one of the creature's children. You slay it, but by that point Ungwamil is leaping forward.
Caught unaware, she catches you by the shoulders and carries you to the ground. You have not the room to swing your sword so you use it as a bar to block her dripping fangs.
On the ground the two of you wrestle, she trying to overwhelm you with brute force, you seeking leverage to slip away. It is a contest she is winning, until you unleash the Light of Valinor.
Until now, you have held off, lest you drive the beasts into hiding until you are gone. Now that the enemy has committed all their forces, you no longer need to fear such a result.
Ungwamil closes all her eyes at once, rolling away, steaming slightly. Around you, her lesser children stagger and collapse, legs curling as they perish. Now with both opportunity and room to swing your sword, you strike the fallen beast.
"Á quale![3]" You cry, stabbing into the centre of Ungwamil's head. "Á quale!"
The best shrieks and writhes, and you stab again and again to be certain it is dead. Eventually its struggles die down, and you turn your eyes to the battle at large.
The Mabari have proven their worth against the Sylvans, too swift to be caught by their lumbering blows, they have lured many away from the attack. Merrill has switched from wide explosions to support, providing burning weapons to the defenders, which have proven vital against the wooden demons.
For your side of the battle, most if not all fell to either you or your infantry, and the few that remain flee into the forest. Deciding to gamble, you lead those still able to fight to hit the Sylvans in the flank.
The killing is slow, brutal work. Sylvans are as tough as trolls and killing even one is a matter of some effort. Many a hound takes wounds, and more than one man will only live thanks to the strength of his armour.
Yet like all work, it eventually ends. The demons within the trees know no fear, and do not break, but they eventually succumb to the axes and swords of your warriors nonetheless.
Finally, the battlefield is still. Your keen eyes scour the trees, seeking any further foe. None come. Tiredly, you raise your blade above your head.
"Apairë![4]" You cry.
To your surprise the cry is soon taken up by the rest of your warriors. Apparently they recognise the word from your song.
Exhausted, the warriors gather in the centre of your impromptu redoubt, where the healers are upon them immediately, led by Xandar. The young apostate casts spell after spell upon the worst injuries. The elven healers tend to less urgent wounds with herbs and bandages.
Between Xandar's efforts and the quality of your armour, no injury will linger, and the risk of infection is all but non-existent. The healers grumble about reckless fools when they see the bruises Ungwamil gave you, but once more your brother's chain serves you well, and that is the worst of your injuries.
The march back to Endataurëo is long, everyone is tired. Once you arrive, you find that the tension of the wait resolves into join and celebration. Your soldiers collapse into bed, while you arrange a celebration for when they awake.
The merriment of the feast you arrange comes to a stop as you step forward to give a, much wordier, post battle speech.
"Warriors of Endataurëo!" Your voice booms through the hall, silencing the racket. "Today you have won a great victory. The tenacity of the rangers, and the loyal aid of our canine companions held the beasts of this forest at bay. The infantry marched at a pace that not two months ago would have seen them collapse to arrive in time."
Cheers break out, and wine is raised in celebration.
When they die down you continue. "Once you were mere citizens, hoping for a better life. Now I say, you have proven your metal! You are warriors worth the title. A toast! To the heroes of Brecilian! Through your courage, the dark taint on this land is excised, never to return!"
Cheers erupt once more.
A Sister Reminisces
Tiania bid farewell to the excitable apostate at the gates of the chantry. The earnest young man had insisted on escorting her all the way back. It was kind of him, but the Sister feared what it might mean in the future. She did not want to need to break the young man's heart.
Once said apostate was gone and she had returned to her quarters, she sank down to sit on the bed and ran her hands over her face.
"I'm exhausted." She moaned to the empty cell.
It was a four hour ride to the strange elven stronghold in the forest. Tiania had spent eight hours in the saddle today and that was ignoring her conversation with lord Russandol.
She had considered many possibilities for what Xandar's teacher might be like without his obvious bias. Her theories had ranged from the unlikely, a Tevinter mage infiltrating Ferelden, to the mundane, a local herbalist with a sliver of magical talent. What she had never dreamed of in her most fanciful moments was a storybook prince out of a fairy tale or romance novel.
Admittedly, once the initial shock had worn off she'd pretty quickly realised that she was being dramatic, but then she'd noticed how inhumanly TALL he was. Moments later she was catastrophising about him being some kind of Desire demon and panicking internally all the while trying to look like she was completely unaffected.
Then she'd met his eyes again. The way they'd twinkled had calmed something in her, soothing the panic and letting rational thought return. Admittedly it had also forced her to admit that she might have a thing for elves, but it had soothed any fears of demons or monsters.
With that she had been able to return to her goal of discerning how safe this teacher of Xandar's was. She'd been prepared for anti-chantry rhetoric or some kind of delusional heretic proclaiming himself the next Andraste. Instead she had met someone personable, self admittedly ignorant of magic and with a wholistic approach to the subject she found admirable.
Her question about heresy had been a mistake, in hindsight. She knew the Dalish were involved, and that was a complicating factor she hadn't had time to address, and they did not believe in the Maker.
Lord Russandol's response had been tragic. She knew there were people who had been hurt by religion, not always for legitimate reasons, yet to hear him speak of this 'Morgoth' the rage, the despair, the loss…
It was obvious why he would not allow Xandar to go to a Circle, why he would seek the Dalish to get him a different teacher. 'Once burned, twice shy' as the saying went.
Tianaia sighed. She wanted to help Xandar, and she was certain that he would be better off in the circle. She had checked the records after they had met and had found an official document proving he did indeed have official permission to learn outside of it, but it worried her still. Even if he was safe from the dangers of the Fade as lord Russandol claimed, he was still far from people who understood his condition and could empathise.
The Antivan sighed once more. Neither Xandar nor lord Russandol would be willing to listen to reason. Long experience had taught her that in a contest between logic and emotion, emotion will usually win. If she had argued it would only drive the two of them further into their beliefs and alienate herself from them. All she could do was be available, to show them a better way by example.
Well, that was not quite all she could do. As the sun sank low in the sky, Sister Tiania sank to her knees, looking up at the Sun painted on her wall.
"Maker, I come to you once more." She prayed. "Remember your children, Xandar and Russandol, for they have lost their way..."
Her prayer ended only when the moon began to rise, and the bell for evening service rang.
[1] Avenge the two trees
[2] From Ungwë -spider and Amil - mother
[3] Die!
[4] Victory