Your Heart, My Chest.

The Shadowfell obscured where day melded into night, twilight hidden beneath a veil of darkness. But a chill and velvet blackness fell as evening arrived, and although their eyes searched the horizon for the next destination, Halsin and Basil had to retreat for shelter. The light of her magic burned bright but dwindled as exhaustion set in and the curse was most insidious when the sun waned in the celestial sphere. Basil felt light in the head and heavy in the feet as she trudged in the wake of Halsin's broad shoulders up a steep incline, to an abandoned home left upon the barren face of a cliff side. All around them were the remnants of war and curse, burned out husks of homes, dried bodies picked clean by warped predators, hollow trees gnarled by wind. Everywhere Basil looked seemed an unspoken, untold tragedy; her heart ached, but apart of her was too exhausted to dwell on it. She was no stranger to walking all day. In actuality, the distance they had traveled just today should have been trivial to her endurance but the weight of the Shadowfell was a heavy burden to bear. It was more than physical and the strain on her magic to maintain a Daylight spell on her stave to illuminate their path all day; it was grief and despair, challenging her mind and soul's ability to endure. Basil prayed for light and for perseverance. Even just to get her through the door into their home for the night, which seemingly by Ilmater's grace she did.

Their abode was a simple, one room stone cabin, which had survived the burning of the village. The hearth was black with soot and the furniture long decayed. Nonetheless, Halsin shoved the warped down close and threw the old bolt. They had made it. Made it into the musty, dusty home, long abandoned, if the previous residents even lived to abandon it.

Basil walked into the center of the room, settling herself with a slow, drawn in breath. She prayed, hand lifting to her chest into a fist, and then turning outwards, as gesture and word came together into petition. Break the curse, bring light, gift hope, and warmth of a safe evening, beneath the twilight rest of the suffering god. Then her hands spread out and the spell was cast, a miracle to reinforce the walls, seal the windows, and keep out all that which would cause them harm. For the first time all day, Basil felt like she could draw in a full lung full of breath. The light and blessing alleviated the worst of the Shadowfell, and would keep out any unsavory visitors.

"That should hold us until morning," she reassured Halsin. "I wish we had gotten farther today but at least this way, we can get a good night's rest."

She sat down, lowering herself onto the floor. Basil began to undo her foot bindings, finally relieving the tight, swollen pressure on her arches. She pressed her thumbs into the meat of her joints, the ball, and arch of her foot; working up her calf.

Halsin remained near the door for a moment after the bolt had settled into place, one broad palm resting against the warped wood as though he could feel the darkness pressing from the other side. Faint, untold whispers made him feel like the silence beyond was not empty, not in this cursed place. It was always waiting, breathing, ever ready to take another step forward to close the gap between you and it.

Through the gentle, cascading warmth, the archdruid knew that Basil's magic would hold. The change in the room was subtle at first: a softening of the air that led to a gentling of the shadows that clung to corners that anchored its presence. Stone walls that lost its sturdiness now felt renewed and refurbished, while the blackened hearth softly buzzed with warmth. Halsin drew a slow breath through his nose, then released it with a weight he had not realized he had been carrying. Only then did he turn from the door.

Nabooru followed his lead and stood, watching with curiosity as he rooted around in his satchel, half expecting him to pull out a full garment for her to wear. Instead, he fished out a much smaller item: a thin needle with thread. Understanding his intent when he moved behind her, all too familiar with the ritual of having her clothes patched up or adjusted to fit her perfectly, she shifted her long, crimson hair away from her back and relaxed her posture.

She remained quiet as he mended her top, the fabric pulling together and tightening just a bit, but gratefully not overly snug on her chest. In listening to him speak, she could sense a gradual shift in his demeanor, his face and tone, a sense of comfort and growing lightness weighed down previously by the guilt he felt over a child losing her life. Perhaps in the political fiasco he returned from captivity to as well. She welcomed the change, minute as it was, for it helped her find her own ease in his presence, with the current situation. Or as much as she could with the latter.

" You sound like my mother, " she said with a soft laugh, releasing her gunk-matted hair and letting it fall back into place over her toned back when he finished. To test his work, she drew her shoulders forward and back and arched and curved her spine. She then turned to face him, lips pursed. " Not because mothers are usually the ones to mend clothing or whatever, but more because she's our tribe's head seamstress and artisan. And she's probably said a few of those lines verbatim since it's her focus. "

Her smile, verging on a grin, returned though, recalling the prospect of cleaning herself up. She nodded toward the tree line of woods beyond the cliff. " To that stream you mentioned, then? "

~*☀*~

For Nabooru, the stroll through the woods felt nearly alien, and, with less of a threat of goblins or other cultists assailing her, she could appreciate it. The desert she hailed from, though beautiful in its own right, was nearly the polar opposite of the lush landscape. The red and gold light of the setting sun flared through the trunks of the trees in dazzling pillars, the emerald leaves and foliage only just maintaining a semblance of their verdant coloration in its wake. The ground, from soil to fallen leaves or grass, felt cool beneath her feet, a far cry from the scorching sands. The growing silence of the denizens of the forest settling in for the night allowed her to better hear the gentle rush of the stream ahead as they continued onward.

She did not use the term often, but the experience did feel almost magical for the desert-dweller.

Still, she did attempt to take stock of their path for future reference, though between her childlike wonder and finding herself entranced by Halsin's voice and commentary about the area, she was unsure how effective that mental map might be in a pinch. She could not help the warm smile that slowly curled her lips as they wandered, the man's passion and appreciation he had for his home, the world around him, was more than a little endearing to her. Where too many would only see a forest, perhaps simply a hindrance to their journey or a hot bed for all manner of creatures one did not want to tangle with lurking inside, Halsin's description and the way he carried himself through this world suggested near reverence of its beauty.

Upon reaching the clearing with the stream, the sight dazzled her. Just as Halsin described, the area was bathed in a golden light, shimmering off the surface of the stream with a beauty that could surpass any gemstone. She wandered to its edge in a half-daze, dipping her toes into the clear water.

When she turned back to ask how he preferred to do this, unsure of his comfort level and how much privacy he desired, she received her answer in the form of him already half undressed, muscled chest now bare. In the moment, she would blame her exhaustion and delayed reactions, but she could unfortunately not deny how her honey-gold eyes lingered half a beat longer than they should, or how they followed the trail the hair growing on his chest and abdomen invited them to travel...

Deciding on a compromise in modesty for herself and to afford him some if he perhaps did prefer it, she turned back around and removed her top herself, careful of the new stitching as she pulled it over her head and discarded it to the side. Her torn pants followed and she wasted no time wading into the water to the deepest area, keeping her back to him.

" So, I have a question for you. I think I sort of know the answer, but...well, most things here are confusing to me. " She dipped her hands into the fresh water and began scrubbing the grime off her scar-smattered skin. " Where I'm from, the only people there with pointed ears are called Hylians. But you and a few of the people that captured me aren't from Hyrule, are you? I think the goblins called those people drow? Are you also a drow? "

Halsin had noticed the way her gaze lingered.

He did not call attention to it. In the wilds, a body was simply a body. Be it scarred, weathered, strong or tired. Modesty was a kindness when it was wanted, and Nabooru taught him to provide it at no cost. He always presumed that his ease was not shared as easily.

So when she turned away, he had a thought to do the same.

The last of his garments were set upon a smooth stone beside the stream, folded with the same practical care he seemed to give most things. With careful steps and noisy water-wading, Halsin moved until he made sure Nabooru felt his broad, warm back press against her own in a show of respect.

Even from contact alone, he made her feel the raw strength that has carried him for decades. A tender touch that had his spine softly tickling her back while the pressure of his weight was a comforting sensation that protected the vulnerable side that she could not turn to see.

The clearing had gone quiet around them, save for the water that splashed against their bodies as hands would make it. Golden light touched the surface in broken strands, wavering against their skin as Halsin and Nabooru cleaned themselves near each other.

Close enough for conversation.

Even closer when it came to intimate contact.

At her question, his brow rose faintly. Then, he gave a low, warm chuckle.

"No, Nabooru, I am not a drow."

He had a thought to turn his head and continue the conversation until the reminder of her modesty made him stop his head in its tracks.

"I am what is called a wood elf in these lands. Pointy ears and a penchant for never sleeping is our trade. High elves, wood elves, sea elves, drow and half-elves. There are many branches from the same ancient tree."

Halsin dipped his hands beneath the surface and brought water up his forearms, almost splashing against Nabooru's shoulders as he rubbed away the dirt and dried blood that clung to his skin. His movements were slow and unhurried -- more mindful than careless.

"The drow are elves as well, though they have long dwelled beneath the earth in the Underdark. Some are cruel. Some are not. Many surface folk fear them, and not without reason, but fear has a poor habit of making simple monsters out of complicated people."

As he moved, his back lightly pressed. At times it would leave her, creating a void of warmth until the pressured weight of his frame returned to meet Nabooru's skin. It was not something he did to tease her, but a byproduct of this little washing ritual that he had started. Small, insignificant motions snowballed into comforting moments, it seemed.

"-And you said Hylians are the ones with pointed ears in your homeland?" He asked, interest warming his tone. "I've not come across that name before, but it seems to be like something I'd love to explore in the New World, beyond the seas we know." To the archdruid, Nabooru's exquisite origins could only ever be explained as a new, undiscovered race from beyond the scope of current knowledge. It made him excited to wonder about many other discoveries that had yet to show themselves for him. "I imagine there are many things here that must feel strange. Goblins, Drow. Druids. Tieflings. Gods with too many names and not enough mercy." He spoke with a twinge of humor. "-And one large elf leading you into the woods to bathe in a stream." Halsin smiled. Not that she could even see it, of course. "You are handling it better than many would." There was no indulgent flattery in it. Halsin did not offer the words as flimsy decoration, nor as comfort merely for comfort's sake. He spoke them with the certainty and confidence of an elf who had observed her closely and found his conclusion sound as a scholar's.

Glad to see that between the two of them, his injuries had been well taken care of, she set the bloodied cloth aside and wiped her hands on her skirt absentmindedly.

Her lips quirked up into a fond smile. "My grandmother taught me how to tend to wounds from a young age. I never got much of a chance to be squeamish, I suppose."

The rumble of his stomach startled her. She blinked a bit owlishly, then laughed. For a moment he had seemed so otherworldly. A bit intimidating. It was hard to be intimidated when his stomach was grumbling like a disgruntled bear.

"I could probably find a snack in the kitchen if you'd like something," she offered. "Normally I charge patients extra for a meal, but I think after the day you've had, you should get it for free."

Niamh couldn't help but tease a bit. She moved to his other side, reaching up to remove her now bloodied hair kerchief from where she'd tied it on his arm. The bleeding had nearly stopped. Using one last bit of magic, she healed up that wound as well.

A low chuckle stirred in Halsin's chest at her teasing. The sound of his amusement showed how the strain of pain had eased, leaving the severity of battle behind.

"Normally I charge patients extra for a meal, but I think after the day you've had, you should get it for free."

She swore the man could read her mind. Still, Nabooru let her mild disagreement with his assessment of her rest, however, both to save them the remaining dregs of energy they still possessed for more important matters and to avoid souring the steadily lightening mood. Halsin met her tired humor with a hint of his own in a moment where any brand of joy or levity would be hard found. She could bear to not weigh the mood down with her, perhaps, too-high expectations of herself.

Nabooru's eyes followed his hand as it slipped from her own, her slender fingers curling into her palm as if to replicate the missing contact. Another surge of heat rose to her cheeks at the inane longing. With this parasite in her head and the threat of these cultists lingering in every shadow, she needed to focus on the trials ahead, not how touch-starved she was. On cleaning herself up, resting, and planning for dealing with the people who kidnapped her, stole her weapons and armband, and who threatened the druids, refugees, and anyone else who ventured into the area.

Still...a tired mind tended to shun discipline and cling to distraction from such harrowing considerations and the events of a difficult day.

" I would take just about anything over that cage, " she agreed with a snort, resting her hands on her knees and straightening her spine to stretch it. His smile and humor, though still twinged with his guilt and sorrow, managed to be both warm and infectious. " Mistreatment aside, I've never done well locked up in a cell. "

The offer of a stream in which to scrub the grime and muck from her person served as a shot of motivation and perked her up instantly. " Yes, please, " she answered a tad too quickly, a second wind lifting her to her feet with the ease of someone well-rested. The light breeze rustled her torn pants and infiltrated through the rips and tears in the fabric, and an arm curled behind her with fingers extended toward its center. Where normally she would find the back of her bandeau intact, she now only found roughly half of the usual portion thanks to the badger's claws. Both a reminder of the ragged state of her clothes.

" Um, also, I hate to ask with how much you've already done for me by letting me even be here, but I think I may need something to change into. I doubt this outfit has much left in it... "

Halsin's gaze dipped, belatedly tracing the evidence of the day across the torn seams of her clothes. Through ragged clothes and caked grime, a wash in calm waters was needed. The thought of continuing the day without washing these sins off their backs would pester him until he acted upon it.

"I doubt this outfit has much left in it... "

The druid took a moment to inspect the severity of her apparel, noting where rips started and ended, passing over the exposed skin that would make even the most sturdy baldurian stare for a moment. Nabooru's beauty complemented her grace in battle, for sure. Wandering eyes should be common with a companion like her beside him.

The moment the magic answered him, Kikyo felt it because it was not merely a shift in the air, but as something deeper, as nature stirred. It rose sluggishly at first, as though reluctant to answer a call within a land that had long since forgotten what it meant to live. Then, all at once, it surged as the dead earth trembled beneath them, and the woman’s gaze lowered just slightly as the blackened soil split, giving way to something unexpected. Vines burst forth and coiled upward in spiraling arcs, weaving themselves into a barrier. She watched in stillness as they layered over one another, forming a dome that pulsed faintly with lingering vitality, and her spiritual barrier met his creation without friction. Light and nature intertwined, not clashing, not competing, but aligning in harmony. The pale glow that surrounded the priestess bled into the lattice of vines, softening their decay where it touched. In turn, the structure of the dome steadied her light, giving it form, anchoring it against the relentless pressure of the curse pressing from all sides.

Kikyo’s eyes lifted slowly as the shadows had not retreated far. They lingered just beyond the woven barrier, pressing against it in slow, testing waves. Where the outermost vines had already begun to blacken and curl, she could see the curse gnawing patiently, like teeth worrying bone, as this sanctuary was not permanent. Her attention returned to him as he towered over her, and there was weight to him. Kikyo observed the way his body adjusted to standing again, the subtle tension in muscle and breath as life returned where death had nearly taken hold. Her gaze lingered on the faint remnants of darkness beneath his skin, now stalled where her power had met it. His voice broke the quiet between them, and she listened without interruption.

The ravenette regarded him in silence for a moment after he finished, the faintest tilt of her head, dark eyes steady upon his. “Halsin,” she repeated softly, as though testing the weight of it. An archdruid explained that the magic, though strained, had not been fragile. Even corrupted soil had answered him. Even here, where nature had been twisted into something unrecognizable, it had still obeyed meant his words were the truth. Her gaze shifted briefly to the dome's walls, noting the creeping decay along their outer layers. “It will not hold long, but it need not,” she said, her voice calm, untouched by urgency.

Her hand lowered slightly at her side, fingers relaxing as the steady pulse of her spiritual barrier continued to breathe outward from her form. The light did not flare or waver, and when her eyes returned to him, there was something quieter in them. “You may call me Kikyo.” The name was offered simply, without weight or expectation, as though it required nothing more, as she did not care for titles or recognition. Her gaze shifted again, this time toward the weaker section of the dome where the outside gloom pressed closest. Through the thin lattice, the Shadow-Cursed Lands watched them in silence, waiting like predators. “They will not stop. This land does not release what it has claimed so easily,” she continued, her tone as even as before.

The light around her moved with her, brushing against the inner walls of the dome. When it touched, the rot slowed, if only by a fraction, but it was not enough to save the structure. Her actions simply bought time for the elf to regain his strength. Kikyo stopped just short of the weak point, her gaze fixed on the shifting dark beyond. “They were drawn to you,” she said quietly. “They will still follow.” Her fingers lifted slightly, not yet reaching for an arrow, but not idle either. “If you intend to leave this place, you will not do so by fleeing alone,” she continued. Her head turned just enough for her voice to carry back to him, though her eyes remained in the darkness beyond the dome. “I will guide you to the edge of this land.”

Halsin's gaze settled on her when she offered her name, and in the midst of rot and shadow, it struck him as something strangely unbroken. He inclined his head once, solemnly, the gesture carrying more gratitude than words could easily hold.

Kikyo. His tongue never shifted in such a manner, nor did his lips as he pronounced it. He let the name settle on his tongue with quiet care, committing its shape to memory.

“I will guide you to the edge of this land.”

"You have already done more than most would dare." He spoke with a low voice, roughened by pain but steadying with each breath he drew. His broad hand pressed briefly to the blackened bark of the woven dome, feeling the curse eat at the living strands one patient bite at a time. The corruption moved slowly. Sluggish. Still, it moved all the same, and that alone was warning enough.

"Let us not waste the mercy you have given me."

The archdruid straightened to his full height despite the weakness that still clung to his limbs. Driven with determination, he turned his face toward the darkness beyond the failing barrier and closed his eyes for the briefest moment, reaching outward to listen not with his ears -- but with his deep connection towards beasts, roots and soil.

Beneath the screaming corruption and the smothering blight, the land still remembered itself, however faintly.

"There is an old trail." Halsin said quietly, opening his eyes. "Half-swallowed by stone and deadfall. It bends northeast toward the mountain pass. Before this curse, deer once crossed there in spring, and shepherds drove their flocks through the higher ridge."

With a soft snap of his fingers, a flickering mote of golden light shot forth, darting along the floor to outline a rudimentary trail of golden threads.

"If any path remains to us, it is that one."

As if in answer, a sudden noise struck the outer wall.

The vines shuddered. Black seeped through the lattice with long, grasping tendrils. Another impact followed, then a scraping chorus, hungry and persistent from every side at once. Halsin wasted no more breath on caution, stepping beside Kikyo as his shoulder nearly brushed hers.

"When it breaks, do not turn for any cry you hear behind us. The curse has many voices, and none of them speak the truth." The warning came from hard experience, though he suspected she needed to no lesson in danger.

The dome gave way a heartbeat later, bursting apart in a storm of leaves, thorns and fragments that once were.

The unexpected weight against her shoulder caused a brief tick of tension to roll through her muscles, the result of unforeseen contact, nerves still tightly wound from the day's events, and a warrior's body over trained to react. Combined with the singular, near-inaudible word he responded with, one she did not agree truly fit her, honestly, she wondered if his exhaustion caught up with him at last and sleep claimed him. Regardless, outside of relaxing once more, she did not dare move. Asleep or seeking even this minute physical comfort, she would deny him neither. Again, she absently wondered if, like her, moments like this were rare if not completely absent from his day to day.

His grief-weary voice, the words it relayed, once more tore at her heart. For him, the girl's grieving parents, for the tieflings who already seemed to face hardship before finding their way to this grove. From empathy of knowing exactly how it feels. She chanced a glance over at him, hesitation rippling through her arm and down to her fingers that twitched on the earth by her side. She was privately embarrassed over how stressed out just trying to comfort someone was for her; had it really been so long since she had done so? That someone came to her for emotional consolation like this? Perhaps she could blame her own frazzled state, but even in her head the defense petered out.

At last, though haltingly, her left arm wrapped around his broad back and offered a reassuring squeeze, her hip shifting closer to his. " We'll make sure no one else, not you or any of the tieflings, has to. " Emboldened with a better understanding of his boundaries, her right hand lifted to tenderly brush that stray strand of loosened chestnut away from his forehead. " As long as I'm here, I'll help make sure it doesn't happen. "

For the first time thus far, she felt only relief when the glow of his magic sparked golden around his hand when he sat up. That shifted to confusion, honeyed eyes growing a touch wider when he took her hand in his own, her fingers flexing to mirror her surprise. He directed her fingertips toward his wounds, and she swallowed a teasing protest over mistakenly healing her again. Cheeks aflame and her hand easing into his guidance, she watched as gashes mended and bruises shrank beneath their joined hands. The warmth of his skin beneath her fingertips was a sharp contrast to his cool, soothing magic, but provided her an ounce of comfort. A similar calm to feeling the thrum of another's heartbeat, a sign of life and a reassurance for someone who lived in an environment where survival was so tenuous.

The light faded, and she blinked, lifting her gaze from their entwined hands to his face. Closer now, she could see just how deeply fatigue settled into his forest-hazel eyes, the lines in his face.

" You should rest, " she nudged. A wry smile curled her lips. " Though...maybe after you wash up. We both smell like we've been locked up in a cage. "

Halsin's breath left him in a quiet huff that might almost have been a laugh, low and worn and warmer now than grief had allowed it to be moments before. His thumb shifted faintly against the back of her hand where their fingers still rested together, reluctant to surrender the contact even after the healing light had gone.

His tender gaze lingered on her face, softened by the dimness, by fatigue, by the simple and startling gentleness she had shown him without demand or ceremony. The brush of her hand through his chestnut locks still seemed to linger there, ghostlike and warm.

He was an elf long acquainted with touch in many forms.

Battle, burden, ritual, healing...

Yet tenderness offered so hesitantly, and thus so sincerely, had a way of settling deeper than any practiced comfort. There was something quietly endearing in the care with which Nabooru handled the moment.

"You are kind. That's enough." He spoke softly, as though he had somehow understood the tension she carried in the set of her shoulders, revealing in the carefulness in each of her movements. "It need not come easily to be true."

Fatigue weighed on him still, yet tenderness came more easily than rest. He wanted to relax, but his heart and lips said otherwise.

Only then did he let her hand go, though slowly and with evident reluctance. He shifted, rolling one broad shoulder to test the mended flesh beneath the torn cloth, then glanced down at himself with a faint crease of amusement at her observation.

"A cage?" He chuckled. "A bog sounds better."

The ghost of a smile touched his mouth then, tired but real, and for a fleeting moment it made him seem younger than the weariness in his eyes allowed. He rose partway, not yet fully standing, and reached for the nearby waterskin before pausing. His eyes returned to her, steadier now, searching hers with an openness that sat strangely vulnerable on so broad a frame.

"There is a stream not far from here." He said. "Clean water. Sheltered by alder and stone."

It must have been a sweet spot he noticed during their grand escape from the goblin camp. This bear never forgets.

She paused. While she was used to seeing patients shirtless or even naked, she couldn't help but be a bit taken aback by how handsome he was, even covered with dirt and blood. Immediately, she scolded herself for even thinking about ogling him. He was a patient!

Goodness.

Moving to stand in front of him, she set her supplies on the bedside table. Even sitting, he was awfully tall next to her. At his words, she nodded, leaning in closer. "Let me have a look."

Her hands were careful as she moved his hair away from the injury. It looked nasty, and probably hurt like the hells, but didn't seem deep. "I see a few small pieces, but I should be able to remove them."

She picked up a clean cloth, dipping it in a bowl of water before carefully wiping away some of the drying blood. Magic flowed from her fingers into the wound, hoping to ease any discomfort.

Halsin's eyes softened as her magic eased some of the sting, causing him to let out a slow breath through his nose. The tension in his broad shoulders loosened by degrees, the heavy muscle there shifting with each steady breath. Even wounded, there was something steady and rooted about him, like an old oak weathering a storm.

"How long have you lived at the grove?"

"A good while." He rumbled, his voice low and warm.

"Long enough that the grove has become more than a refuge. It is... a part of me." His gaze lifted to hers then, patient and unhurried despite the closeness between them. "I have watched saplings grow tall, watched children become guardians in their own right and seen the weathered hills and soil make way for life to bloom time and time again. The years pass differently when one listens to the forest."

As she worked a bit of the debris free, his brow furrowed -- though he did not pull away. Her tender touch made little cause for pain as each piece of debris pulled was a moment of relief. Halsin felt her magic roll through his injuries like a tide, and for a fleeting moment wondered whether her gifts had been born of something ocean-deep and strange.

"You have a gentle touch." He said, quieter now, as if the words had slipped free before he could think better of them. "That is a rare kindness, especially after battle."

She passed the damp cloth over his skin, wiping slowly. Streaks of dried blood were erased near his temple, while elsewhere her hands met a contrast of taut muscle and warm, solid flesh beneath the grime.

He paid no mind to the feel of the fabric cruising through his bare body. She worked with a healer's steady focus, fingertips light and professional against the breadth of his battered frame, though he could not help noticing the care in her touch lingered a fraction longer than strict necessity required. It felt like a curiosity that she kept carefully leashed.

Even as he watched her work dutifully, he quietly hastened things himself, raising his right hand to let a gentle golden glow close any small nicks and cuts that were hardly worth more of Niamh's magic.

"And you?" He asked, his eyes searching her face with calm interest. "Have you always been so composed while tending wounds, or am I simply fortunate enough to bring out your courage?"

In truth, he likely knew the answer already. Her skills felt honed and practiced. There was nothing uncertain in her bearing; she moved with the confidence of someone well practiced. Skilled in every right with the impressive use of her magic.

His own questions came with a low, unmistakable rumble from his stomach.

A truth only in the most exacting sense of the word. Driders retained only their two hands and gained eight arachnid legs. Ruby, meanwhile, boasted ten hands in her true form, pale and terrible. Her mask still hid the uncanny sheen of her eyes, but a close look would reveal her long, spidery fingers, and fangs too sharp to belong to an elf. Her disguise was imperfect, but it did the job so long as no-one looked too closely.

“It was a simple transportation spell, my dear, and a stroke of luck, I suppose.” She frowned at a rip in her long coat. “Relatively speaking, anyway. The welcome party left much to be desired." She stepped carefully around the pile of fallen goblins, wondering if they ought to take a moment and dispose of the bodies or not. Nasty work, that. But, she supposed, she was already too disheveled to be seen anywhere respectable. If need be, she would assist.

Halsin let his offered hand fall without offense, broad fingers curling back toward his side as though the refusal were no insult at all.

If anything, his gaze only sharpened with quiet interest. There was no mockery in it. No cruelty. Only the patient attention of an elf who had spent a lifetime studying what things were beneath the shapes they chose to wear.

"Mistaken then." He said evenly, his voice a low, steady warmth amidst the stink of blood and goblin corpses. "I can accept that."

His eyes dipped briefly to the strange length of her fingers, the glint of those too-sharp teeth behind the mask, and then rose again to her face.

He did not press the matter.

Whatever she was, she had not turned those fangs upon him. That, for now, was enough. His instinctual desire to record the anomalous woman before him must be kept tempered for now. Her tone and temper must be danced with utmost care.

At her question, he looked down at his palms. Blood darkened the grooves of his skin and crusted beneath his nails, though whether it was wholly his own was difficult to say. He flexed his hand once, testing it, then the other.

A shallow cut marked one forearm, another scored across his side where a goblin blade had slipped past fur and flesh in the chaos. Pain answered, but nothing seemed grave until he felt the flex of his lower back strike a sharp sensation in his nerves.

An arrow, likely dipped in whatever vile concoction upon its stone head, was embedded in his lower left back. Reaching, he snapped off most of the shaft in a grim attempt to free it, only to feel the head remain lodged deep in the wound while a jagged inch of rotwood still jutted from the flesh.

"Nothing that will trouble me overlong." Halsin said. He wiped one palm absently against the rough fabric at his hip, though it did little to clean it.

"A few cuts, bruises, and an arrow lodged unpleasantly deep in my back. I have endured worse from thorn bushes with a mean disposition."

The faintest hint of a smile touched his mouth then, dry as sun-warmed bark. It did not last long as his attention shifted to the heap of bodies at their feet, expression settling once more into something grave and thoughtful.

"The goblins struck first." He replied, as if to spare her the burden of explanation. "Though, the soil will sour quickly if they are left to rot where they fell."

With a low exhale, he stepped past her, careful not to crowd her despite the breadth of him. One bloodied hand lifted, and the air around the corpses stirred.

Leaves skittered, dust rose. Roots beneath the earth began writhing and waking at his call. Nature answered. Even when weary and wounded, there was something immense and grounded in the ease with which he summoned it.

"If you still have strength to lend..." He added, glancing back over his shoulder at the enigmatic woman. "...Help me see thissss done."

But the words came heavier than he intended, dragging strangely on his tongue.

"You may. Tell me what name you would prefer-"

His brows furrowed. His frame, numbed.

The arrow was still lodged inside him. Poison-tipped.

Halsin staggered forward, having spent the last of his energy and magic to allow the toxin to cast a deathly grip on his body.

"-what name you would... Prefer I use-"

She offered a nod and a mumbled, " I am glad, " to his reassurance. It did help ease the weight on her heart, but the effect was minimal when the greater part of the burden lay in the guilt of her actions and the life she took. In the attempted coup, and the tragedy of an innocent girl losing her life in its wake. The concern for the Archdruid with an obviously kind heart returning to find those he led involved in some ritual meant to exacerbate the suffering of the refugees he himself offered sanctuary to. As a leader herself, she could imagine the complex storm of emotions creating turmoil within his mind.

And then there was the worm in her head...

Though they stepped into the sunlight of the day once more, the scene that unfolded before them offered little warmth to the cold settling deep in her bones. A mother's cries were nothing unfamiliar to her, the tiefling woman's wails awakening the deep-seated memories of Gerudo mothers mourning their fallen children of all ages. The insults and accusations of incompetence and broken promises spread among the crowd of refugees like wildfire and burned just as hot, and if Zevlor did not step in to calm his kin as he did, Nabooru very likely would fail to keep control of her sharp tongue in Halsin's defense. She may not know the entire situation, but she could see that he did not deserve the vitriol slung his way. And it seemed the other druids were too cowed by their own guilt and failure to stand up to Kagha to defend their actual leader.

It reminded her how lonely a position like his, like hers, could be...

Despite the solemn scene of the girl's burial, Nabooru was glad for the moment away from the fuss. Halsin chose a picturesque spot for Arabella's final resting place, with a stunning view of the forest and delicate blooms guarding the mound under which she rested. The Gerudo aided where Halsin allowed, but she mostly kept out of his way; she sensed he wanted to do this. That it was his duty. She would respect his wishes. Mostly.

When he completed his task, his attention returned to her. His hands glowed in a golden light to rival the sun overhead, but her muscles once more tensed, her eyes squeezing closed and she turned her face away from him, despite her understanding of what came next. She at least eased her discomfort, fended off the phantom burning and freezing sensation and the cackling, an instant quicker than before. She blew out a breath and relaxed just in time to process his hand grazing the arrow wound in her cheek and shifting any hair that stuck to it away from it, the skin knitting itself together beneath the warmth of the spell and his fingers. Tender. Likely the gentlest touch she experienced in longer than she could remember.

Though, he likely needed and deserved kindness in that moment more than her.

When he repeated himself again about her innocence in the Shadow Druid's death as he finished healing her, she half wondered if he were trying to convince himself rather than her. Still, she focused on the more important part of his statement, the one that deepened the frown on her full lips. Once more she found herself at odds with her outspoken, blunt nature, a silent suggestion to leave him to his thoughts, and respecting her position as a stranger to a situation that, all told, was not her business. But as she watched Halsin retreat to the hill's edge to seat himself upon it, the exhaustion in his slumped posture and the pain she caught in his visage more than once, she wanted to at least try to offer some comfort to him.

Weight shifted from foot to foot one more time before she padded over to where he sat, lowering herself next to him, sure to leave a respectful amount of space between her hip and his." No, this wasn't your fault. " Her own exhaustion seeped heavily into her tone, but it remained impossibly gentle but firm. " I have a feeling you won't believe that, but none of this, not what I did, what happened with Kagha and the girl, is your fault. "

She folded her arms, one atop the other, in her lap and leaned forward, gold eyes drifting along the swath of trees surrounding the area. More than she saw at one time on a usual day in her life. A truly beautiful region...

" I won't say much else on that. I just...I know what it's like to be in a position like yours at a moment when it feels not very many people like or support you or your decisions. You did the right thing helping those people. "

She hazarded a glance over at him again, fingers curling around her elbows to keep herself from brushing the stray chestnut hair from his cheek. Her mental and physical exhaustion blurred her judgement, had her ready to broach the lines of overly friendly physical contact with a stranger. An ally, and a kind one who would not bite her fingers off for it, she imagined, but it wasn't like she had the excuse of healing his wounds like he did.

Pulling her legs up over the ledge, she crossed them, resting her hands on her ankles. " Oh, and I don't think I need to tell you those wounds of yours will get worse before they get better. You should heal them, too. Or point me in the direction of some kind of first aid to do it for you. And... "

Trailing off, she dragged her fingers through her grimy hair, regretting the action instantly when they caught in the crimson locks. A flash of a grimace, then she managed the barest, tired smile. " If you need to talk, or vent while I just sit and listen, you're welcome to. I also know how lonely it is to lead, to feel like there's no one to talk to, express yourself genuinely to, when you're supposed to be who they look to for guidance. So, maybe a stranger will be easier to let it out to. Or I can just give you space. I'm sure someone capable will babysit me for a little while so you can have some time. If you would prefer. "

His lack of a response wasn't meant to hurt her.

It was just that he could not muster the strength to reassure her like he always would.

His broad frame remained where it had bowed at the cliff's edge with heavy shoulders that bore a sort of weariness that sank deeper than flesh. Slow, uneven breaths escaped his lips. Chestnut locks stirred as the wind danced through them. Her presence was appreciated, even with his body trying to keep itself together with minimal reserves.

Still, he listened.

Beneath the crushing dark of exhaustion, her tender voice reached through to him. Dim. Warm. Persistent, even though it felt distant as his consciousness drifted to and fro.

"-but none of this, not what I did, what happened with Kagha and the girl, is your fault. "

Her words were kind, even if he couldn't believe it for himself.

Leadership meant bearing the weight of what was done in his absence as surely as what was done beneath his direct command. By his choices, his reality had come to pass. Could it have gone better? It's always a question born of failure.

Of course. It could have gone better. Much better than losing two lives this day.

And yet-

Her voice did not accuse. Did not demand. It laid no burden at his feet save the one he already carried, and even then seemed to offer, impossibly, to shoulder a corner of it. The idea of companionship on a deeper level that eased one's frustrations with the universe never struck once in Halsin's mind the moment he was thrust into leadership. Needs of others were first. His own could wait if time permitted.

It never did.

A low sound slipped from him then, barely more than breath. Not quite a full sentence, but a word that was enough. His head tilted a fraction toward Nabooru, as if some instinct sought the source of gentleness even while his body screamed in dull pain to remain still.

With eyes still closed, he whispered.

"...kind..."

His shoulders leaned towards her own. The weight of his frame shifted towards the gerudo. There was no sense of courtesy with that body sagging against her shoulder, bearing his weight with little remorse. Some instinct in him trusted that Nabooru could bear his weight as his chestnut locks draped against her delicate skin.

"Tired. Tired of burying children."

His words seemed torn from someplace deeper than waking thought. There was no ceremony in them, nor composure. Only raw grief, worn as honestly as the scar upon his face.

The tired archdruid laid against her for a moment and a half. It was a much needed moment of short rest before his silent revival led him to activate his magic once more. Gleaming gold, his right palm captured Nabooru's own. The gentle chilling glow was numbing at first, soothing the next.

Halsin guided her hand over the myriad of injuries upon him, lingering upon each gash and cut, tending with what little magic left he could muster.

He could have asked her call out for help. She could have left to fetch a healer.

The shadows had a way of swallowing sound, and even the quiet of a forest should have had life beneath it, such as the soft chitter of insects, the rustle of leaves stirred by small creatures, the distant call of birds. Yet the Shadow-Cursed Lands knew none of these things, as silence here was not peaceful. It was suffocating, thick as damp wool pressing against the ears. The priestess stood among the skeletal trees, her white robes unmoving in the stagnant air, bow resting lightly in one hand. The faint glow of a charm bound to her sleeve cast a pale halo around her form, pushing back the creeping tendrils of darkness that writhed along the forest floor. Her gaze shifted toward the mountain pass ahead, eyes narrowing slightly as the faintest flicker of torchlight bled through the gloom. It was weak, faltering like the final breath of a dying candle, but it moved.

Someone was still alive out here, and that alone was enough to draw her forward. Kikyo stepped soundlessly between the warped trunks, the hem of her robes brushing over dead leaves that refused to rustle. As she neared, the smell reached her was rot, damp soil, and the bitter tang of corrupted magic clinging to the air like smoke. Her eyes fell upon the figure collapsed at the base of the mountain path. An elf with broad-shouldered even in the hunched position he had fallen into. His torch sputtered weakly beside him, its light nearly devoured by the creeping darkness. Blackened veins spidered faintly beneath pale skin where the curse had already begun to take hold. Wisps of living darkness curled toward the fallen druid like curious animals, brushing along the torch and retreating again as though testing the dying flame. The shadows were simply waiting and measuring how much strength remained in their prey. The female stepped forward, and the shadows stirred immediately. They recoiled slightly at the gentle glow surrounding her, rippling like disturbed water along the forest floor. Some retreated into the deeper dark between trees, though others lingered just beyond the reach of her light, writhing with quiet displeasure.

She ignored them as her attention remained on the elf kneeling in the dirt. The soft light around her brushed against his form, and where it touched the creeping tendrils of darkness, they recoiled with a faint hiss, like frost melting beneath the first warmth of dawn. Kikyo knelt beside him with quiet grace, the pale glow of her charm spreading wider as she did. The shadows shrank further back across the ground, displeased but unable to press through the barrier her spiritual power created. Her fingers hovered just above his skin, not quite touching yet, as she could feel the corruption writhing beneath it, cold and hungry. “Stubborn,” she murmured quietly, her voice barely louder than the dead wind drifting through the trees.

A pulse of spiritual energy flowed from her touch as at last her hand settled lightly against his arm. The cursed veins shuddered beneath her fingers as the holy energy pushed against them, slowing their spread. The darkness recoiled violently from the contact, wisps tearing away from his skin like smoke caught in a sudden breeze. Around them, the shadows stirred in agitation, but her focus remained entirely on the elf slumped before her. “You will not die here,” she said calmly. The light around her brightened slightly as she gathered more of her power, pressing it gently into his failing body to steady the life that still flickered there.

A few seconds were enough.

A moment of respite to gather strength. What clawed through his spirit had viciously recoiled in response to the warm light. The blackened veins that had crept like blight beneath Halsin's skin did not vanish all at once, but where her light pressed into him, their advance faltered. He finally gave a sign of life for her to observe: a shuddering breath escaped him, coursing into a low groan.

Halsin's fingers dug weakly into the dead earth. His shoulders rose and fell with effort as with every labored breath, a little of his strength returned. Again, her warmth surged, reminding him that he must live.

Power crackled at his fingertips. The familiar gleam of gold surged from his arms to his hands. A heavy breath was taken before his hoarse voice gave shape to the remaining magic in his body, committing this act of self-preservation.

"Sit vita crescere."

The maiden's support was enough. Blasting through, the surge of energy that shot from his fingertips danced through the dead earth, expelling the vile presence of the curse while manifesting the black, rotting vines that sat under the earth. Reinvigorated, the Archdruid cleansed the surrounding area, expending the last amount of energy he could muster for the day as the rot gave way into a verdant, swirling mass formed in the shape of a dome around the two individuals.

Each swirling vine locked into a dense lattice, forming layers upon layers that the black mist struggled to seep through. Reinforced by her spiritual barrier, the structure of the dome followed its foundations, emboldening its defenses as nature and light harmonized into an effective counter to a necrotic force. The concentration of light provided a haven as the dome solidified its foundations, securing their safety. It was a moment of brief respite, Even if the outer layers had already begun to rot.

Halsin's hunched form carefully stood upwards, trailing his left hand upon the walls of the dome for support with a slow rise of his presence. His vision cleared. His muscles ached with life -- something that comforted him despite the pain. The thought of going rigid as the cold dark claimed him was a feeling that he never wanted to experience again. It was a fate far worse than death.

Finally he stood, regarding his savior with quiet gratitude. His body was hunched over, towering upon her as he maintained less than an arm's length from her presence.

"You have my thanks." He spoke. His voice came lower now, no less rough, but steadier. "Another few moments and this land would have claimed me."

"The name is Halsin. Archdruid of the Emerald grove -- and a reckless scholar that would have been a corpse were it not for your divine intervention."

Halsin's gaze lingered on her foreign trinkets. They were unknown to his memory, and the design of her apparel had him thinking that she came from the new world.

"This shelter will hold for a moment while I gather my strength... but we are not out of the woods yet." He warned her, looking to the side as the doorway of their dome made itself evident through a weaker layer of vines letting in the gloomy background through its gaps.

Her words were gentle. Calming as the wind.

Halsin let out a slow breath through his nose as the arrow came free. A light grunt escaped his lips while his brows furrowed from the twinge of pain.

Her magic washed over him like a tide. The ache softened swiftly, becoming a passing thought as his eyes carefully studied her motions: Gentle, yet deft in tending his injuries.

"This is a kindness I will not soon forget." He replied warmly. He flexed his bicep once to test the binding, only to feel the dull tug of pain her magic had already softened. "You've got a gentle hand. Calm, steady, and skilled in your magic."

With a look towards her kerchief, he frowned. He felt wrong to make her use such lovely fabric for his injuries.

"-And now I've soiled it with blood. I should apologize."

At the mention of her home, he felt rather surprised to learn of its existence. He knew these lands like the back of his hand, meaning that her quaint little abode must be hidden from the dangers that roam around. Warding, perhaps? A veil of magic could very well conceal it from even patrols, friend or foe. He was curious to know of its location.

As he stood, he learned of her name. Niamh. Foreign to his tongue.

Her knowledge of his people and the grove piqued his interest even further. Just how long has Niamh been keeping to herself all this time?

"Lean on me if you need to. We'll take it slow."

He trusted her words.

With care, he draped his arm across her shoulders. His let a little of his weight rest on her. The pressure of his burly frame landed on her left side.

Such close contact brushed his own scent across her senses.

Blueberries. Dipped in a trace of honey. How sweet.

"Lead on, then." He smiled. "As we walk, perhaps you can tell me how it is that someone living so near the grove has managed to avoid us. That takes either astonishing luck, or excellent instincts."

As they walked, the archdruid introduced himself and spoke of the grove. Recent events has caused a sprinkling of turmoil, but he kept the details brief to keep her from worry.

"I keep my home shielded with magic," she explained. "At least, I have lately, because of the bandits and goblins. But...the people who need me can find me."

It didn't take long for them to come upon her little cottage. The outside was worn, but it was well loved and taken care of. Chickens wandered around the small garden off to the side, along with a goat who was busy nudging one of the chickens, knocking her over. The chicken let out an undignified squawk.

Niamh couldn't help but sigh. "Stop bullying Henrietta!" The goat looked at her and bleated. She rolled her eyes and looked up at Halsin. "They're a handful. All of them."

Her home was quaint. The subtlety of its presence intrigued the druid. Up close, the cottage stood apart from the forest around it -- but only just.

Its roofing melted into a soft shade of green. Leaf-like patterns spread across it until they became indistinguishable from the forest canopy. It all seemed so obvious now... From afar, one would never notice her home. From up close, it was possible to sense its presence. Only potent magic could have woven such a veil over the cottage.

With the animals bickering and arguing, Niamh's soft, stern tone made Halsin chuckle. Tending to creatures always hit a soft spot for the elf, for he could see the love and care poured into these dear beings.

The interior was quaint. Cozy and homely, if would had to put it into words. A certain warmth could be felt when residing in this tiny abode. Halsin's broad frame dwarfed the space somewhat, yet he made sure to carefully maneuver himself as he settled on the edge of the bed.

"If I may."

In an effort not to tarnish her sterile bed, the archdruid carefully unclasped his bindings. Piece by piece did the leather coverings and verdant shoulders come off his body, leaving his mud-caked and blood-spattered garments at the floor beside the bed.

Bare now, he sat with quiet steadiness despite the blood on his skin and the strain in his shoulders. The sharp smell of sweat and blood overpowered the raspberry fragrance usually clinging to him. Halsin looked up at Niamh as she filled his sights, ready to inspect his injuries.

"I fear that a few shards of flint might remain embedded on my head. The pain is sharp and the blood seems to trickle when I brush my fingers upon it. Those abominations have resorted to crueler tactics even with their wooden weapons." He inclined his head, better exposing his injury.

His gaze never left her own as each loose chestnut-shaded strand of hair passed his eyes. Without proper grooming, one might mistake his disheveled hairstyle for that of an unruly warrior.

Nabooru let her extended hand fall limply back to her side when her attempt to help him to his feet went unnoticed or wholly spurned. Or perhaps he merely noticed the blood, her blood, staining her palm and fingers from the puncture wounds sustained from grabbing one of her assailant's barbed club barehanded.

Or perhaps that was wishful thinking. An attempt to lessen the sharp and worsening sting of guilt in her heart.

Though she felt like a girl scolded, she did meet his gaze when it found hers, though his understanding words, even the softening of his hazel eyes, only twisted the knife her own regret planted. Not in defiance as she would have her instructors as that young girl, but in solemn recognition. Sun-gold reflected the deep ache burdening her chest for the life she took, crimson brows bowed and knit together and lips curved downward. Unlike her past self, they remained tightly closed over explanation or excuse. What could she say that would not only make the moment worse?

Only when he walked away did she allow her gaze to fall. She used the moment of silence to check in with herself. In the battle, she nearly forgot about the gashes spanning her back, their sting making themselves known alongside the perforations in her hand and the shallow gash in her cheek. She was certain that, by now, after her time in the cell at the goblin camp, their escape from it, and this battle, every inch of her body from her hair to her feet must be caked in grime, some combination of dirt, mud, blood, and sweat. Her clothing was in near tatters. And, without the adrenaline of running or battle, she could feel the beginnings of exhaustion settling in muscle and bone as well as the emotional weight of learning that the parasite forced into her head could turn her into a puppet to her mistake of killing that druid. Of feeling lost in this strange land with only a what she hoped was a well-meaning stranger to keep her from finding herself in a worse situation than imprisoned and the uncertainty of when or if she could ever return to her home, her people.

Halsin addressing her snapped her back to the sanctum, her bare and muddied feet finding motion and following the call to the stone steps. Her eyes fell momentarily on the girl's limp body, a truly innocent victim in this attempted coup. She offered the Archdruid a single nod.

" Lead on. "

The steps echoed loudly against Halsin's measured pace. The heavy stillness that hung over the sanctum felt lighter as soon as they left the scene of carnage. At the foot of the stairs, he paused and looked back at Nabooru, hazel eyes searching her expression with the blunt honesty of one long accustomed to suffering and the many shapes it wore.

“I can understand your guilt. No soul should ever be forced to take a life -- and you offered me aid, even as my own troubles ensnared you.”

She had no choice but to kill.

It was the mantra he repeated in his mind.

“I do not look at you and see a murderer, if that eases your worries.”

She had no choice.

“What happened here grieves me. The dead should be mourned, and the innocent protected.”

With the sudden creak of the stone door, light spilled across the darkened steps. Zevlor was met with a harrowing sight. The archdruid carried the lifeless body of Arabella in his arms, his face marked by an expression that made the other druids hang their heads in shame.

The shriek of the dead child’s mother was that of a banshee. Even from afar, she could see the result. Komira ran down the steps, tripping in her haste over the cracked and uneven stone. In that moment, grieving mother saw only her child in this moment, and not the cuts and bruises she earned in her rush to him.

Nabooru was forced to witness the aftermath: the insults, the justified screams of a mother who had entrusted the archdruid with her child’s safety.

Burying her was Halsin’s duty. The grave lay atop a hill that overlooked the grove and the sea of trees before it. It was a small mound, inconspicuous save for the daisies planted there to watch over the grave.

Wordlessly, Halsin’s focus finally returned to the Gerudo. He looked worse for wear. The blood staining the leather had begun to reek. Cut flesh had scabbed over, likely to grow infected if he did not tend to it. His hair was disheveled, a few brown locks falling across the left side of his face.

The lack of attention to his own injuries was alarming. Did he do this for penance, or did his altruism extend so far that he cared for others even when his own body was in tatters?

Those eyes, ever so gentle. He stared not with accusation, but with exhaustion. It had been a long day, and despite all that had happened, he cared enough to reach his palms out and tend to her wounds.

Gleaming gold, his magic sutured her cuts, each bruise dispelled, every muscle soothed. His hand reached for her cheek, brushing it with a soft touch as the gash was treated.

“I only have myself to blame for this. You had no choice.”

Yet again, he repeated the mantra.

When her wounds were tended, he finally settled at the edge of the hill, slumping ever so gently. He passed out with his back turned. The reality of the situation and the culmination of the day’s struggles had finally reached him.

From the hellish escape from the goblin camp to the attempted coup born of Kagha’s lack of morals, an archdruid could only manage so much before his own body gave out.

𝑰𝑻 𝑰𝑺 𝑨𝑵 𝑼𝑵𝑬𝑵𝑫𝑰𝑵𝑮 𝑷𝑶𝑰𝑵𝑻 𝑶𝑭 𝑭𝑹𝑼𝑺𝑻𝑹𝑨𝑻𝑰𝑶𝑵 that she cannot control where exactly the veil parts between her realm and the prime material plane. Usually, when Ruby finds herself far from proper civilization, she simply turns back around and tries again in a few years, but fate has other plans, having dumped her right into the middle of a fight.

Goblins with their scimitars and crossbows jeered and laughed at the sudden presence of a high elf bearing only an ornate walking cane, but they were unprepared when a flash of light saw her change into a vicious drider, all limbs and teeth and burning bright eyes, each leg ending in a claw-tipped hand. She wasted no time in taking them out before they had a chance to attack, unintentionally aiding the elf they had been targeting before she came along.

The challenging scuffle lightened itself with the introduction of an unexpected ally.

Bedazzling as it were. Halsin's broad movements stilled for a moment, as did every other goblin whose gaze snapped to the spectacle. A high elf?-

No.

A terrifying drider. Ghoulish. Garish.

Through the carnage that spilled in the blink of an eye, Halsin was transfixed at the sight. A drider roaming above the Underdark? It did not share an appearance that felt common enough, even in all his studious travels. Her movements were swift with each swing of their claw-tipped limbs. What intrigued his interest the most was its anatomy. This creature bore very little resemblance to a drider of Lolth...

"Be a dear and retrieve my cane for me, would you?"

Hunched. The archdruid could hear his own breathing as her request floated in the air. What rampaged a moment ago had returned into an elven beauty. A stark contrast.

"For one who arrived in such violent fashion, you ask your favors sweetly." He chuckled, regaining his breath as he straightened his posture. Halsin picked his way across the gurgling, soon-to-be-lifeless pawns of the True Souls. Between a goblin's paws lay the ornate cane. It seemed like one of them was hoping to escape with such a treasure.

His hair was a little bedraggled. His armor torn at a few seams. His palms bloodied, yet he wiped them upon his trousers to keep that walking cane untarnished.

"You have my thanks." Halsin continued as he offered the cane back to her. "Help is rarely so timely."

Out came a soft smile from the archdruid. His gaze remained on her however, inquisitive to the very end. Her use of magic seemed unheard of, and more importantly her nonchalant attitude to a one-sided battle left him wary of the full extent of her power.

"A drider one moment, an elven lady the next." He raised a brow. "-And healing wounds that would leave one bed-ridden."

His words came from curiosity. Not a single mote of accusation in it.

"Whatever realm spat you out certainly had a wicked sense of timing." He chuckled, extending a hand out for greeting.

"The name is Halsin. I do believe you're not from this world, as far as I can tell."

"I live nearby. We can go there and I can treat your wounds. Let me get this arrow out, though. It can't be comfortable."

While she didn't have any bandages with her, she did have the kerchief she had used to tie her hair back. She tugged it from her curls and very carefully eased the arrowhead out of his bicep. She tied the kerchief around the wound tightly to staunch the bleeding, using a small bit of magic to soothe the pain. "There. You'll be a little more comfortable until we get to my house."

She smiled up at him. "My name's Niamh, by the way. You mentioned a grove? You must be one of the druids, then."

Niamh had never visited the grove, but she knew of it. Some of the travelers she had treated occasionally mentioned it.

Her words were gentle. Calming as the wind.

Halsin let out a slow breath through his nose as the arrow came free. A light grunt escaped his lips while his brows furrowed from the twinge of pain.

Her magic washed over him like a tide. The ache softened swiftly, becoming a passing thought as his eyes carefully studied her motions: Gentle, yet deft in tending his injuries.

"This is a kindness I will not soon forget." He replied warmly. He flexed his bicep once to test the binding, only to feel the dull tug of pain her magic had already softened. "You've got a gentle hand. Calm, steady, and skilled in your magic."

With a look towards her kerchief, he frowned. He felt wrong to make her use such lovely fabric for his injuries.

"-And now I've soiled it with blood. I should apologize."

At the mention of her home, he felt rather surprised to learn of its existence. He knew these lands like the back of his hand, meaning that her quaint little abode must be hidden from the dangers that roam around. Warding, perhaps? A veil of magic could very well conceal it from even patrols, friend or foe. He was curious to know of its location.

As he stood, he learned of her name. Niamh. Foreign to his tongue.

Her knowledge of his people and the grove piqued his interest even further. Just how long has Niamh been keeping to herself all this time?

"Lean on me if you need to. We'll take it slow."

He trusted her words.

With care, he draped his arm across her shoulders. His let a little of his weight rest on her. The pressure of his burly frame landed on her left side.

Such close contact brushed his own scent across her senses.

Blueberries. Dipped in a trace of honey. How sweet.

"Lead on, then." He smiled. "As we walk, perhaps you can tell me how it is that someone living so near the grove has managed to avoid us. That takes either astonishing luck, or excellent instincts."

As they walked, the archdruid introduced himself and spoke of the grove. Recent events has caused a sprinkling of turmoil, but he kept the details brief to keep her from worry.