A meal, a full night's rest, and another meal sees you in much better shape than your first awokening. Your wounds appear healed to an outsider, though the sharp pain rapid movement causes indicates that there is lingering damage within. You set your face like stone such that none know you are not hale and whole. You would not want to cause undue distress. You may not consider the wound significant, but humans are very strange about internal injuries.
Rather than dwell on such matters, you focus on what you can do to aid the preparations. Unfortunately, there is relatively little you can do. Between your physical handicap and lack of knowledge of the area you would be more harm than help in most cases.
The sound of yelling in the tongue of the Chasind draws your attention to the healer. Evora, you think her name was. She is berating a youth for a reason that is not immediately apparent. Approaching the two reveals more information. The youth has mixed several different types of herbs into one container. An understandable mistake if one is not familiar with organising such things.
Unable to meaningfully contribute to the conversation, you set about correcting the mistake.
You are interrupted by the old healer. "If you do, he no learn."
"If it is not done, we will not leave on time." You reply. "There is a time for lessons, and a time for swift action. This is the latter."
The old woman glares at you, then shoos the youth away. You aid her in the packing of her supplies. You encounter more than a few plants and roots you do not recognise, which you leave for the healer. Despite this deficiency on your part, you believe that you have been far more use than the youth would have been.
You had attempted to begin a work song once or twice, but Evora had given you a harsh glare each time. You find it both amusing and heartening to see someone so cautious of you; yet so oblivious to the fact that if you wished them harm, they could do nothing to stop you. Her caution does remind you that she is still under the impression that you will become a darkspawn. You should address that before it becomes a problem.
Between cultural dissonance and the language gap you do not think there is a way to introduce the topic gracefully. When all else has failed you, it is time for some Fëanórian bluntness.
"I am not going to transform into a darkspawn." You state.
The wise woman starts at your words, clearly not expecting them. She turns and glares at you, but you simply wait for her to respond.
"You are infected." She scoffs. "You feel fine now, later you turn. We all die."
"I understand your concerns. But I am of the Eldar, we do not succumb to disease or death as you understand it." You explain calmly.
The old woman snorts. "You use strange word. No matter. You not god, you not messenger of gods. You crazy man who die soon."
"I agree as far as not being a god or a messenger of one." You reply, honestly relieved to hear it. "I am even willing to accept that my actions can appear insane to an outsider. I am not going to die though. At least not because of infection"
Evora does not respond immediately. She thinks, handing you several packages to close and load onto one of the sleds.
"You say no from gods. Yet you also say not going to die. Madness." The woman says sceptically. "Even gods fall to taint."
Very well, it looks as though you are once more going to explain that an Eldar is not an Atani. Granted, there is a language barrier, two really since Thedas does not have words for the Eldar, but you did not get where you are by shirking from challenges. Besides, doing the impossible is practically a family tradition.
You attempt to return to the beginning of the conversation. "I am not a man..."
The woman stares pointedly at your chest before interrupting. "Man, woman, all same."
"That is not what I meant." You protest, curse this language barrier. "I am not a human."
"Elf, human. All same." The woman interrupts again.
You take several deep breaths to rein in your temper. If you are going to do this, you need to do it properly.
The fundamental problem you have is the language barrier. The best way to solve that problem is to find some way to communicate without words. You look around the chaos of the camp. In a pile that you understand contains items that will be left behind, you see a sheet of pale hide.
"Wait. I will return soon." You tell Evora.
The pale hide has been stripped of hair, but you think it has not yet been tanned. Hence why it is being left behind, you suppose. In the same pile is a board of wood with pins, presumably used in drying hides. You quickly stretch the hide over the board while looking about. You find a set of differently coloured pastes in a different pile. You think it might be used in the tattoos, or face paint, the tribe wears.
Finding the person who owns the pile takes a few moments.
"This yours?" You ask, extending the bowls to the old man.
The man looks confused, points to the bowls and then to himself. You almost nod, but quickly realise that he might think you want to do his face paint or something.
Instead, you mime taking the paste in your hand and smearing it on your hide. You then cock your head and make a curious expression. The old man smiles and nods. Waving you off, before turning back to what he was doing. Oh! That is a potter's wheel. This must be clay he uses in his work. With visual aid secured you return to Evora, who is looking supremely unamused.
You quickly use your fingers to sketch a rough caricature of the woman before you, her face anyway. Between your own limited skills and the small range of colours you are working with, it is something you would have been embarrassed for when you were a child. Still, it is clear enough that the healer recognises it, so you do two more.
She knows what an elf is, so for that race you do a caricature of Tamlen. You yourself go between the two of them.
"Human." You say, pointing at Evora's caricature.
Evora looks at you in a manner that suggests you are not convincing her that you are not crazy.
Undeterred you move your finger, first to Tamlen, then yourself. "Elf. Eldar. I am Eldar, not elf, not human."
Evora seems somewhat interested, in the same way one might be interested by learning a piece of minor trivia. "Why matter?"
"You saw the Light of the Eldar." You state, drawing rays coming out of your face. "The Light is only outside sometimes; it is always inside. The Light burns away darkness, such as what is within darkspawn."
Evora looks to be deep in thought. "Prehas. You proof?"
"I fought the darkspawn months ago. Inhaled a black smoke from their corpses. Spat it out again." You reassure her.
Evora glares at you and repeats herself in a more commanding manner. "You proof!"
She wants you to prove your words? You can do that.
You think a moment. There are a few possible ways, but you are already planning on running some experiments with darkspawn blood later. There is no reason you cannot use that time to prove your words.
"Later, I will study the darkspawn." You say slowly and clearly. "You can come and watch, you will see the taint does not affect me."
The woman scowls at you, though you are not sure how much of that is because she struggles to understand your words.
"How I see?" She asks suspiciously.
With her eyes presumably, you think and do not say. "You can see however you like."
A full day has passed, and the advice of the healer is still to rest as much as possible. Thus, you decided to take over the duty of patrolling the borders to watch for darkspawn. Either nothing will happen, and you have freed up the warriors who would have done it, or there will be an attack that will prove you do not need to be coddled. You do so love it when every outcome of your actions results in good things. Now if only these warriors would cooperate. They do not, generally, understand Thedaslta and communicating with them is proving to be something of a chore.
"I… am? Are?... Understand… don't?" The only one who 'speaks' the tongue of Thedas attempts.
This is one of his better attempts so far. You think that you understand the gist of the statement.
"I guard. You help." You repeat; pointing to yourself, the ground then the warriors and the Village.
The short break since you last spoke, and your gestures do not seem to help with their comprehension. Your frustration continues to mount, only kept at bay by the fact that the warriors are trying as hard to communicate as you are. You decide to make one last attempt before you throw caution to the wind and just try to touch their minds.
You point to the village.
"Village." You say slowly. "Village."
Their looks of naked confusion remind you of trying to talk to Merrill for the first time.
"Village." You repeat, pointing again.
Finally comprehension seems to dawn and they shake their head. They point at the ground.
"Walk." The one who speaks Thedaslta says gravely.
You are reasonably certain that is not what he meant to say, but that is not the point right now.
You point to yourself. "I walk."
You feel the phantom pain of your mother chastising you for speaking improperly as the warriors look at each other nervously.
The spokesperson says, "No. I hurty."
You will graciously assume he meant to say that you were to hurt to help.
One thorough demonstration of how not hurt you were later, and you are happily patrolling the village's boundary. The village does not have a wall, or much in the way of a consistent internal structure. Your patrol reveals the reason for this. The village is built on one of the hills that rises from the marsh, presumably as it is the only solid ground for some distance.
The hill is still made out of relatively soft soil, prone to becoming mud when it rains. As a result, everything is built on areas of firmer ground that likely indicate underlying rock. Hence, there is no good foundation for a wall. Honestly, building in this swamp sounded like a fascinating architectural challenge. Humming to yourself, you turn your attention to the surrounding area.
Another advantage of this hill is the clear sightlines over the marsh it gives. Your eyes pierce through the distance with ease many humans would envy. Unfortunately, the early morning sees a mist hanging over the swamp, this you cannot see through. It leaves you tense through the watch of the morning, especially as you began to hear strange sounds that call to your mind hosts of orcs.
When the mist begins to clear, you catch sight of a number of the smaller darkspawn darting to and fro. You curse under your breath, the odds of this being a scouting party for a larger host is high. Had they come for you? For the village? As you see other shapes moving in the thinning mist you decide it does not matter. You have a short window in which to choose a course of action.
Your thoughts race through your options. You could head down to meet them in battle. But you fear what might happen should one bypass you. Given that the other option is to rouse the village, thereby making your decision to guard the border pointless, you decide to throw together a mystical defence of some kind.
Since you are short on time, you quickly discount more traditional wards and defences. Given that you are no Istari to pull a fireball out of your hat, you decide that you will use a song of power. Decision made you turn to face the horde slowly emerging from the mist. You note with some relief that it is not so large as the one you faced two nights ago. More than the village could handle alone, but fortunately they have you.
This is a situation where most Eldar would stumble. There is something about an onrushing horde of abominations of nature howling for your blood that impedes calm thinking and creativity. Fortunately, it is a situation you have grown used to over the last five centuries. You quickly throw together a song, take a deep breath and begin.
You sing of home and safety. Of mighty towers rising against the tide. You sing of Himring, unbowed before dragons, and the stars, ever beyond the reach of evil. Your voice rises, the music swelling. What once seemed a faint pinprick of light before the onrushing tide of darkness, grows and grows. By the time your song ends the darkspawn's front rank has ceased to move. Though the naked eye reveals nothing in their way, you perceive the shadow of a great fortress shielding the village.
You sigh and try to relax as much as you can. You feel the weight of the spell within you, a steady pull on the inner reserve of vitality from which you draw your strength. A bead of sweat runs down your brow, soon lost in your hair. You have constructed a mighty defence, but that defence will only last as long as you do
You heave a deep breath, feeling a hitch as your internal injuries make themselves known. Holding this forever is simply not an option. You are, to no one's surprise, not Melian. What this has done, is bought you time, time enough to set up some kind of defence. This leaves you with a choice of how to deal with the horde of darkspawn before you.
The mass of darkness presses against the boundaries of your protection. Every moment that passes is a step closer to your final collapse. It would be the perfect situation to practice your archery if anyone other than you were holding the barrier. Given that the only thing between the endless horde of the night and the people of this village is you, you do not want to waste your strength on anything.
You could run into the village and talk to people, but you think that might take too much time. Even if none of the warriors understand your language, they will understand what you are about to do. Calling upon your memories of Thrangodrim and the Battle of unnumbered tears to supply the necessary motivation, you raise your head and scream in pain.
The sound echoes across the hills. In the village people look up from their work and see the horde. The best warriors were already racing for their weapons when they heard your voice. Where your words might have taken time to spread, one cry has reached everyone. There may be misunderstandings, so with a heavy sigh, you begin to walk towards the village.
You reach the warriors as they are mobilising, their chief among them.
"Brightstar? You hurt?" Velkind asks.
You shake your head, and gesture at the horde. "Sounding the alarm. I hold them back with magic, but it will not last forever."
Though you do not know how much of the sentence the chief understood he nods. "We kill monsters. You keep safe?"
You return his nod
In the time the village was rallying the darkspawn have been ramping up their attacks on the barrier. They quickly discovered that the physical might wielded against it means little, if that troll missing an arm is any indication. They have moved on to magic.
That is a little trickier to endure, the sheet weight of the energy of change being flung against your defence is tiring if nothing else. You feel as though something is stirring, something more suited to face your defence. Unfortunately for the creatures of darkness, whatever aid was coming to them has come too late. With a cry the warriors of the Chasind hurl their spears into the mass of the darkspawn.
The ignorant believe that the defence of any position is solely up to the warriors. This is categorically untrue. You watch as children rush from storehouses to the lines, carrying more spears or gathering stones to throw into the crowd. Civilians contribute in similar ways, or join in hurling debris and stones, to varying levels of efficacy.
Soon enough longer spears are gingerly levelled at the enemy and thrust through your defences. It takes time, a long time, but the horde begins to thin. You remain on edge, poised to throw yourself into the fray should your defence begin to fail, but it proves unnecessary. As you gingerly lower your defence beneath the setting sun, the only thing to be heard are the Chasind's cry for victory.
You have had an incredibly difficult time deciding how to go about your scouting for the week. Two days have already passed, and you have done very little of what you actually came here to do. You had originally planned to examine the darkspawn, where they were massing, how they were moving, and other information pertinent to knowing your enemy.
Now though a wrench has been thrown into that simple plan. The existence of the Chasind was something that you had not considered in your initial planning. You remember the desperation in Velkind's voice as he had asked your aid in facing the darkspawn. If there are other villages in a similar position, then you feel as though you need to help them.
That train of thought is what has you asking the Chasind chief if he knows of any other villages.
"I fear no, Brightstar." The man apologises. "All clan here, other clans keep location hidden. War between clans not rare."
"Do not be concerned. I will find them on my own." You reassure the man.
You may not agree with people considering you a messenger of the gods, but that is no reason to make them feel as though they have failed the ones they worship. At first you think you have failed in that endeavour. Velkind is clearly nervous, shifting his weight and glancing around.
His words quickly dispel that thought. "You bring other clan, Brightstar? Is safe?"
You bite back a sigh, will the division of the Noldor follow you everywhere you go? "We shall see."
Your foot splashes down into water, submerging itself up to your knee in a heartbeat. You grit your teeth and breathe out slowly as you take another step. Mud and water coat your legs, feeling quite unpleasant. That is not even to touch the insects that seem to exist purely to make this swamp hellish.
It has been some time since you left the obvious trail, on the logic that such trails would be the first thing concealed by those who wanted to hide. In that time, you have waded through water up to your waist, had to retrieve both your boots from mud at different times, and had approximately a gallon of your blood drained by insects. Despite all this you grin to yourself. Your latest step has finally taken you through the tree line, and you can see a hill rising and the village on top.
You walk up the hill, marvelling at the way your boots sink only up to the heel. With a clearer perspective you can tell that the village has clearly been suffering recently. Thick black smoke from behind the village indicates a mass cremation and more than a few houses are in obvious need of repair.
If you needed any further proof, it would be found in the sound of horns and the warriors rushing to face you. The ragged formation of perhaps a dozen men sporting various injuries and waving what appear to be bronze weapons would not have been intimidating when you were two1.
The humans wave their weapons and shout battle cries, rushing towards you. You wait for them to commit to the charge, then dart through the holes in their formation and past them.
By the time the warriors have caught back up to you, you have already reached their village. A quick glance at the house of healing shows at least as many men with critical injuries, or that darkspawn taint.
The civilians clutch their children close, and your every motion is followed with fear. The warriors seem uncertain as to their next course of action. You guess, based on the tattoos you have seen elsewhere, that one of the injured is the chief.
"Greetings!" You call, smiling. "I am Russandol, called Brightstar. I have come to help!"
Silence is the only reply you receive. People cower before the might of your voice, but none seem to understand your words. Very well, if words will not work, then perhaps actions will.
You stride towards the medical tent. Suspicious eyes follow you; the warriors continue to shadow you. A few of the healers look as though they are debating whether to stop you or not. You ignore them all, bending down to examine the injured.
The prognosis is not good. You have seen Quendi recover from such wounds, but only under expert healers. You also know that humans are much more fragile than your people. Between these two factors you quickly decide that you can do nothing for these people that is not already being done. You turn your attention to those you can tell suffer from the taint.
The tainted have been placed away from the others. Few dare approach them, and you can see why. All of them are injured in some way, and you can see the dark streaks around their wounds. Most are pale and shivering, those with open eyes stare at nothing. They are far gone, close to their ends.
This however you can treat, many of the Enemy's greatest weapons used some variation of this corruption, most could affect even your people. There is a grimly entertaining rhyme about treating it that every child born in the First Age knows. This you can help with, though you will need to act swiftly. If you are lucky one of them will speak a tongue you understand.
You need Athelas. You rush to the herb supply and search through it, knowing that time is against you. You search for the plant, going through every container, box and hanging bunch. You struggle to communicate with the other healers, trying to find where they keep their other supplies. You search the area around the camp, hoping some is growing nearby. You even resort to attempting to draw the plant to see if anyone knows where they could find it.
You get blank looks, confused noises and no Athelas. Fine, you have no Athelas, but surely there are other plants that have similar properties, even if less potent. One by one you run through the substitutions you know and each time find nothing.
You waste an hour or perhaps even longer searching for something you recognise. You curse yourself, perhaps if you were a better healer or had spent some more time listening to Merrill and Xandar's lessons you might have something to use. There is no point lamenting the fact, you will simply have to do the best with what you have.
Clean water is an important part of healing the taint. It serves a number of purposes, representing purity and growth, as well having its own faint cleansing properties and providing a medium to absorb the corruption. You use all your art, all your power, to try and work on the taint directly through the water you use to wash the patients' faces and corrupted wounds. Even as you work, you can tell it is not enough. Faces do relax, and you can tell that you have soothed the men and women, but they are still fading.
The sun has set, and you are alone with the tainted. You continue to fight the inevitable, far too stubborn to give up even at this late hour. The one you are working on coughs and stirs. He babbles words in a language you do not understand.
"Hush." You say, preventing him from rising. "Rest now."
The man blinks and asks. "Ferelden?"
He speaks Thedaslta? "No. I speak the tongue though."
"Tribe, darkborn, safe?" His voice is faint and hoarse.
You look around to see if there is anything to give him to drink. "Yes. You should save your strength."
"Good. Good." The man says, relaxing. "Did duty."
Those were the man's last words.
One by one you lose your patients. None rise again as darkspawn, which you had feared, but that is a shallow comfort. You are with them through the whole night, unwilling to give up as long as you might yet save even one.
Morning dawns a few minutes after the last breath slips from the last patient. The tribe finds you slumped against the tent pole, exhausted emotionally and physically. You watch as one by one the bodies are carried away and burnt.
There is some kind of wake or funeral, and initially it seems that you are no longer treated with suspicion. More than one of the healers tries to comfort you, but their words mean nothing to you. Now is the best time to try and convince them to leave, the only question is how.
You are at this point, thoroughly sick of failing. Your week has been frustrating in a number of ways. You could not guard the other village alone, Evora still thinks you are something you are not, you could not save the tainted of this village and you cannot speak to anyone left.
Your control has not yet failed you, but you have no reserves of patience left. As the suspicious glances return and people begin to whisper, presumably wondering if you poisoned their people, you give up. No longer caring how it might appear, you reach out and touch their minds.
'Who is your leader?' You 'ask'.
To say that touching someone's mind takes place primarily in words is both true and misleading. Things that can speak often organise their thoughts in words and words are used in the communication. That said, these words are not the whole story of a creature's thoughts, which often fly swifter than words can. Often images, feelings and general impressions make up as much of the experience of touching minds as words do.
That is why your 'words' are understood, and why you understand their replies. As a result of this overlap you get a name, Chief Cullan, and an image of the man you had spoken to last night simultaneously.
'Your current leader.' You 'ask' once more.
This gets contrasting images and words, but the majority picture an old woman named Thea. A woman who is among the crowd and thinking hard about literally anybody except herself. That seems like a leader to you.
Thea had lived a long life. She had been taught magic by an old woman who claimed to be the famous Flemeth, though she had her doubts about that. She never wanted to lead, always far more interested in the other world and all its mysteries. Yet she was now, through accident and the actions of the night creatures, the most respected elder in the village.
People were looking to her for guidance, and she did not know what to do. The terrifying stranger that came dressed as a warrior of the great norther savages disturbed her. His strange request to see the villages medicine stock had been comforting in its own way, but those he had 'cared' for had died. She was afraid, and confused and very much out of her depth
Now she heard his voice in her head, demanding to know who the leader was. Desperately she thought of somebody, anybody else, just so long as he would not realise it was her. She did not know what he would do, but she had suspicions. He likely planned to kill her and supplant her. So, when he turned to face her and the presence in her mind swelled, she cowered.
'Don't be afraid.' His voice 'spoke' though it was as much a sensation of comfort as words. 'I mean you no harm.'
"What do you want." She asked aloud, her voice small and weak beneath the gaze of the stranger.
'I want to help you.'
Images begin to rush into her head, another clan, the night monsters fought back, a green forest.
'I want to take you to a place where you will be safe.' The voice continues to 'speak' as these images flash through her mind. 'You have no warriors, and the horde is endless.'
More images, of a dark skinned man embracing the stranger, a line of red cloaked elves fighting strange monsters side by side with humans. A sensation of long friendship and deep responsibility. A feeling that she recognises, something that reminds her of her youth. Of her little brother and how she worried about him.
'I will keep you safe. Will you come with me?' The stranger, the eldest of the sons, 'asks'.
Thea nods.
You lead them to the other village. It is best to concentrate them. There is some concern when they arrive, and you fear there may be violence. Fortunately, there is no past enmity between the clans, and there are no immediate consequences. You do have to interrupt proceedings when the body language of the new arrivals turns from cautious hope to fear.
"What are you doing?" You ask the chief.
He blinks at you. "We break clan, to make part of us."
"No." You state, to his clear confusion. "We are all in this together. We are not going to break their clan, they are just travelling with us for now. When we reach safety they can be separate again if they want to."
For a moment the chief stares at you, but he bows his head, and the new arrivals settle into a camp of their own, in easy reach of the village.
1 Approx. 18 years of the sun, roughly equivalent physically to a human child of 7