Getting Our Grove On

Log Info

• Title: Getting Our Grove On
• Emitter: Barclaiigh
• Characters: Barclaiigh, Tawyse, Cryosanthia
• Place: W03: Druid Grove
• Time: Thursday, February 24, 2022, 5:31 PM
• Summary: Balefire, A ritual day of spring summoning usually held after Deathwatch; a Druid Festival, is being held in the grove of the Ygdrassil Union. Barclaiigh and Tawyse meet and make acquaintance. After some discussion, Cryosanthia arrives, representing the Silver Empress at the festival.

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The silence of the woods is only broken by its wildness. The clamour of squawk and the scratch of claw becomes almost hushed, only to erupt again and prove that this sacred place is at its heart, untamed. The great branches of Ygdrassil's Sapling rise from the center and then outwards. Its limbs hold every sort of wildlife, from the hooting owl to the forest leopard, and are broad enough to provide shade for Gilead's wild hounds. It would take more than a dozen giantborn to surround its base, with arms stretched broadly and limbs straining.

Here is Wild, with the roar of beast contrasted with the solitude of the forests. Surrounding the tree lies open ground composed of dirt and a mixture of wild grasses, rocks. Along one side of the grove is a place where the shamans and hunters craft bonfire and rest after an evening's gathering and gossip. A multitude of races may be seen here, though in particular those of the shamanic followings--many humans, sildanyari, oruch, and sith-makar among them. Shamans, however, are not the only number--hunters shelter here, or come here for gossip, ritual, and social exchanges. The Grove becomes a place at once both sacred and a community's heart.

Some of these hunters serve as silent, armed guards around the perimeter. Hedges composed of thorn and bramble add to the border's enforcement. Though Nature perseveres, it is also peaceful and wild, kind and savage, and those of the Green must from time to time stand their ground against the Blight and Unmakers.

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-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=  Appearing  -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
Barclaiigh   4'5"     202 Lb     Mountain Dwarf    Male      A thick tree-trunk of a dwarf. Wavy auburn hair, loose traveling clothes.
Tawyse       3'0"     33 Lb      Gnome             Female    An orange-haired Gnome in green leather armor.
Cryosanthia  6'9"     291 Lb     Sith-Makar        Female    A dashingly tall, elegant white-scaled lizard woman.
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The world is still blanketed in white beneath a cloudless, sapphire blue sky. Chill winds whip down off the Redridge range and into lower Alexandros and through the woods. The Grove is busy-- chaotic, even-- and wilderness folk of all shape, sizes, and stripe move through the area in celebration.

The bonfire burns highest today, its warmth spilling out across the space in open defiance of the clinging winter chill. Spring is being summoned. The Yggdrasil sapling practical glows and seems to move in the flickering light and moving shadows. The attendants are split almost equally between ritual and revelry and in more than one place the line between the two blurs heavily.

Barclaiigh is a stranger to the space. He's kept to the northern wilds between the Grove and Mictlan, keeping to himself as he gets more and more familiar with the land. Adventures have taken him out west into the rolling fields of Alexandros, too, but he'd yet to make contact with the similarly-minded people of the wilderness union. The broad-shouldered Khazad looks equal parts lost and like he very-much belongs here. His tiny eyes are wide in wonder and most of his form obscured beneath piled hides nd furs and a furred cloak. A simple spear pokes up into the air behind his head.

A loud droning sound approaches Barclaiigh from the forest nearby.

The source is soon revealed as a giant rhinoceros beetle several feet long, its wings blurred as it methodically makes its way through the air. Astride the large insect is a Gnome, her bright orange hair standing out against the green of the Grove.

The beetle drops quickly to the ground, and comes to a stop. The gossamer wings flex several times, and then begin to fold against its back, the two chitinous parts of its shell settling in place with a click.

The Gnome dismounts and pulls her pack from her back, opening the top and rummaging inside. "Tsk. They always settle at the bottom..."

Dressed in dark green leather armor, this orange-haired Gnome has all the hallmarks of an outdoors-man.

The most noticeable thing about the Gnome is that her hair is a bright, fiery orange. It is absolutely wild, probably never having more than a cursory combing of fingers. It IS clean, however, with a few wildflowers and sprigs of juniper woven with strands of hair into rough braids. Her eyebrows are typically long, and match her hair in brightness and hue. A button nose is framed by dark brown eyes, and her small, round lips are also tinted slightly orange.

Her frame is lithe and short, her musculature indicative of someone who has spent a good portion of their lives out of doors and on the move.

She wears a long, white gambeson made of light cloth, which covers her from neck to ankle. Several slits have been cut from the bottom up to her thighs, allowing her freedome of movement. Over the gambeson she wears leather armor dyed a dark green. The upper part of the torso clings tightly to her chest, while the lower part is essentially a leather skirt which goes to her knees. Leather pieces cover her legs and arms, again allowing for very good freedom of movement.

She does dress for the weather, with a dark green cloak thrown over her on rainy and snowy days. And it is very rare to see her without her trusty giant beetle mount, Chaucy.

The Grove Barclaiigh trained at was small, remote, and fairly traditional. Only druids and similar wilderness shaman were allowed and there were no more than eight or nine people on hand at any given time. The open-bordered gathering space so close to a crossroads metropolis is more than a little overwhelming to the countryside Khazad-aul who's still getting used to Alexandria. The sith-makar were still something he was getting used to (outside of a trio he'd become familiar with) and oruch, yrchblood, and the arvek nar held a firm place in his mind as ancestral enemies. But he'd become long-since used to putting those predispositions aside.

And now gnomes on giant, flying beetles! The dwarven druid's mustache and puffy beard do little to diguise his slack-jawed stare but he ultimately remembers to clamp down his chompers and replace it with a friendly smile. His sandals crunch and slap as he pads over to inspect the shiny chiton, his bushy eyebrows raised in open appreciation. "H'lo, miss! Fancy feller y'got here..."

The approaching sound of sandal hitting heel causes the Gnome to look up just before the Khazad speaks, and the praise of her mount causes her to smile.

The beetle itself is a deep, lustrous black in colour, with small whorls of lighter shades of black and grey visible as one gets closer. The creature turns slightly, its eyes taking in Barclaiigh, the antler-like horn almost as long as the Khazad is tall.

"Tawyse.", the Gnome says by way of introduction. "And he is Chaucy. Been a companion and mount for years now. Solid fellow." A wee hand is offered up. "Nice to meet you. First time at the grove?" Tawyse's gaze sizes the Dwarf up. "I would hazard a guess that you have come some distance to be here."

The guileless smile returns, squinting up his already-small eyes as he reaches out from under his cloak and takes the hand in a strong (but not crushing) and calloused grip. The dwarf spares a moment to mouth the gnome's gname, committing it to memory as he concentrates on her face. Then he nods once to punctuate the personal little ritual.

"Barclaiigh Stoutbrew. Been running back'n forth from th'Redridge to th'city with my auntie two seasons now." The enthusiastic Khazadi shaman remembers to stop shaking and release the gnome's hand, his grin turning bashful for a moment as he distracts himself with looking around. "Ain't never seen a Igdiggyrassle seedling afore," he nods his head at the grove's centerpiece. "More'n a little mad it took me this long t'get out this way... didn't want t'intrude, 'guess...."

The Gnome's expression is one of amusement as he seems mouth her name to himself, and she does shake vigorously before he lets her go.

"Taw is fine if it easier, Barclaiigh." Her expression turns thoughtful, "Your last name is familiar to me. Famous brewing house, yes? I think there's a place or two in the region that bears that name. Or sells your brews. I don't get to town, or the city, often."

Tawyse smiles then. "Are you a druid, then? You should have come sooner, and introduced yourself. We're a welcoming bunch here. Redridge to Alexandria? That can be an interesting run, I am told."

Chaucy as begun to settle, his legs splaying out. The reduction in height allows the Gnome to settle carefully on his back, bringing her more in line with Barclaiigh. "There, now I won't get a crick in my neck.", she says with a laugh. "So what made you decide that today was the day you'd take a peek at the seedling?"

Barclaiigh's chest puffs when Tawyse recognizes his family name and he bobs his head. "Darn right! Family has a brewery'n waystop at th'foot'a th'Redridge north a spell. Brew's in more'n'a few khazad holds through th'mountains'n spots 'long th'roads. Now inta th'city here. Auntie's a very persuasive business lady." He beams with more than a little pride.

Looking back, he shrugs. "Where I learned y'don't just show up; that'll earn a right good thumpin'. Kept hopin' t'find someone'a similar skillset but mostly just cityfolk... as you'd 'spect." There's a pause and his piled furs jump up in a shrug. "'s Balefire now, though'n I ain't never called fer th'spring on m'lonesome. Figured it was worth riskin' a thumpin'n I find th'door wide open." He barks an awkward laugh and shrugs again.

"More fool, me... but here I am, now'n hopin' t'chip in." The shaman twists a bit, shoulders dipping down and forward, up and back, then his speartip disappears from behind his head and he reaches out from under his furred cloak to brace it against the ground like a walking staff. "Can call me Bar, miss Taw. Most do."

"You don't need to call me miss, though. Unless you want me to call you mister Bar?" Her laugh is bright and short. "And you can sit with me a while, if you want. You are welcome to join me at dinner, too, to break the ice, as they say. You don't have to worry about being thumped for simply showing up."

She shrugs then, and slides down from the beetle's back. The Gnome starts pulling the leather pieces on her arms and legs off. "I'll get a little fire going in a few moments, and then we can go and see what they have to eat. As far as making yourself useful, well, information is good, we exchange that back and forth. And they are always happy to take animals you've caught yourself, or helping feed the fire with collected firewood, helping people who get lost, defending the grove from attack, stuff you probably already do for your local circle, yes?"

Her nimble fingers pull at the straps holding the leather skirt, and chest piece, in place. "The only downside here, despite the pleasant weather in the grove, is that bathing in the river nearby is always a cold affair. Everything else, the food, the company, the friendship, all top notch."

"Force'a habbit," Bar admits. "Taw," he then tries on, eyes roaming around as he tries to decide how it feels, head tilting to one side and then the other. A self-directed, idle nodding and he's stepping to one side, finding a rock at the right height and dropping his spear next to it. His sausage fingers come up around his neck and he undoes the cloak, shrugging it off and then draping it over the rock. He has a pack on beneath with a bedroll atop and a ponykeg below. Setting that all down carefully, he frees the keg and carries it cradled in one arm to set down next to the gnome's things. "'at'll help t'break th'ice," he promises.

Sandals slap on Barclaiigh's way back to his chosen rock and he takes a seat, sighing heavily as he does. The long skirted tunic he wears rides up a bit, revealing the climbing straps of his sandals around his thick calves. "Just rescued some great cats'n the city, actually. Little vermin imps'd starved'm half t'death and planned t'sic them out on unsuspectin' commonfolk. Breed ain't from around here, though, so auntie's gonna ship'm back across th'seas."

He's staring at the beetle again, scratching at his beardy cheek and idly wondering where that sort of critter comes from. "Got me a hot spring I found out west a ways... but it's got a bit'a lizard infestation at th'moment. Kobolds. Some folk from th'city who speak th'language're gon' help me'm see if we can't figger out how t'share friendly-like."

With the leather set aside, the Gnome sighs, brushing at leaf bits that dot her gambeson. She moves closer to Bar and his seat, and begins to dig a modest hole in the ground. "So what's in the keg? A sampling of your brew, so that you might entice new customers into trying it?" Taw giggles lightly. "A proper merchant never ignores an opportunity, right?"

Two holes are made in the ground, with a small tunnel joining the two. She turns to the beetle, and taps on his carapace, the creature becoming animated once more. "Fetch us some firewood, Chaucy, please? And bring it back before you get dinner, dear." There's a pause in the beetle's movement, before he turns in place, and waddles off into the woods.

Meanwhile, the Gnome fetches a small bundle of tinder and kindling from her backpack.

"Oh? Kobolds can be such pests. But if you can find something they want, they do like trading. When it benefits them. Hah, if they knew they could charge coin for it, they'd probably let people soak in the springs."

"More just not wantin' t'show up empty-handed." Bar grins, the sort who doesn't even begin to think in ulterior motives. "... but it's one've ours iff'n y'do fancy it. Somethin' new we brought down fer Kegger Fest: a cream stout. Nice'n smooth with an extra bit'a sweet at th'end."

The Khazad-aul laughs at the topic of kobolds and he shakes his head, "Maybe so. Hopin' t'mend some fences'n maybe put up a bridge'r two. Iff'n it's a friendly-enough tribe we can make sure folk get along'n everyone enjoy a warm soak. They seemed right nervous... so maybe a few bigger folk'd help'm relax'n feel safe." He shrugs.

"So what about you, mi--" The dwarf clears his throat and grins, "Taw. You from 'round these parts?"

"I would be happy to try the brew." She giggles lightly, "I didn't expect Stoutbrews to be sweet."

Chaucy returns at this point, pulling a sizable log along. It makes a light hissing sound, and then begins to pull pieces of bark from the log.

"Forgive a bit of noise, Bar.", Tawyse says as she stands, fetching an axe that's strapped to her backpack. For a little while, she chops at the log, cutting several sections of the log free, and then chopping these into smaller, serviceable pieace.

She speaks between chops.

"No, I am from a small, hidden Gnome village to the north. Maybe two weeks travel, if you really push yourself, and do it during the spring before the storms come. I've lived in the area for about five or six years, though."

"Most aren't'n we've got a good number'a fer th'grey-bearded traditionalists," Barclaiigh admits with a wide grin. "This'ns the brainchild'a m'cousin. Big fan'a goats' milk'n figgered some way t'make it work in a brew..." His expression and his big shrug make it clear he's not quite sure how it was accomplished himself. "It's a treat."

The dwarf stands and walks over during the chopping, collecting up the wood and setting a few pieces near the whole with tinder and kindling. He may be new in this particular grove but he's a practiced hand at wilderness travel. His mane bounces when he nods his head, listening to the gnome talk about her homeland and then squints off in the direction indicated as if he might see it should he look hard enough. "Five years? Sure you have yer share'a stories, then. Few months'n I've already met a smart monster'n'a sewers that wanted help courtin' a ladymonster..."

She snorts then, and bursts out laughing, her next axe swing so weak that she barely dents the log.

"Welcome to Alexandria.", she says, after taking a moment to breath. "You've basically describe a day of the week ending in y."

Taw gets back on track with the chopping, nodding slowly. "I do have a few stories. A whole bunch about demons. There's a cursed wood nearby, named the Felwood. Used to have all kinds of portals with demons practically falling out, but I think it is less a problem than it used to be. Still, more than a few of the little shits have tasted the steel of my sickles, and the lightning that answers my call."

Barclaiigh grins along while Tawyse laughs, still a bit incredulous about the whole situation after living it, himself. He crouches back out of the way after returning from his first trip, ready and waiting to take a load without looming. "Right. Think I've heard'a th'place. Same problem a few other places'n th'area got. All twisted up'n tainted by th'demon wars." The dwarf's big, oft-broken nose wrinkles in disgust just thinking about it.

"I'd'a never thought t'take sellsword work but auntie made th'suggestion. Didn't've much t'do with Porter-- that's m'boy-- wantin'a just sleep this time'a year. She used t'do it inn'r sprier days..." He's getting sidetracked. "Anyroads... it was somethin' else. Saw a half-elf girl make another mercenary fall'n love with'r right'n front'a the gal he fancies..." He grins and shrugs, "Cityfolk."

In the gathering dusk, as the blue skies deepen, a white cloud drifts by above the canopy of trees. Notably, one with a silver lining.

No, it's a flier, a female sith'makar resplendent in blue and mithril who banks over the bonfire and comes in to land. She makes steep descent and pulls up abruptly, to step down to earth. Lithe, tall, she has white scales traced with pale blue markings and mithril mail matched by silvered accessories, including a gleaming helmet with long horns.

"Peace on your Nests," She intones formally, announcing to those nearby, "This one brings the greetings and warm wishes of the Silver Empress. May I convey her blessings on your Balefire and congratulations for the successful endurance of the deathwatch."

"Yes, must have been a hell of a thing, a demon war. Anything involving demon is bad enough, but so many that it's called a war? Glad I missed the last one." Tawyse nods to Barclaiigh as she brings the last few chopped pieces of log to the hole where the kindling and tinder were located. From her backpack is fished a flint, and a small steel rod. A few practiced flicks and the kindling catches fire. A short time later, the logs follow.

The remnants of the log are set upon by the beetle, who greedily chews on the log, seeming to rather enjoy the bark.

"Hah, cityfolk indeed. What you speak of is an entirely different sort of drama. Another reason why I stay out here, with the more sensible people." The Gnome laughs and winks at the Khazad.

With the arrival of the Sith, Taw offers up a wave.

There's a nod of approval as the fire starts and Barclaiigh is dusting his hands off on the side of his long tunic where it sticks out from beneath his layered hide armor. He watches the flames catch and mutters something low in Khazdul: devotions to Roa the Maker. Then he looks from the sappling to the sky and offers similar to Gaea and the patron deities of the Word.

The bearded shaman is raking his curled fingers down through his great bush of wavy auburn beard and turns to see what new, fantastic arrival makes their presence known. He stops gobsmacked and slackjawed (again!) at the sight of the silverscale. "Miss Cryosanthia! It's me!" He smacks his chest a few times, and then turns to show his face in profile, hands up indicatively. "Barclaiigh Stoutbrew! H'lo!" He shifts from foot-to-foot a few times and then surrenders to impulse (with an 'aw, dangit!') and takes a few long (relatively speaking) strides to wrap up the armored sith-makar in a quick hug. "It's been a dog's age!"

The dwarf grins his idiot's grin, the mustache caterpillar arcing to compliment his wide lips. "Miss Irshya said y'had sprouts on th'way!" His eyes go wide when he realizes he'd just squeezed her good and he hops around to get a view at her from the side. "Danged if y'don't look ready t'hold back th'hordes, though!" A pause. He's excitable. "H'lo!"

Cryosanthia is standing tall and a little on the stiff side, her diplomatic excursions bring out her formal, power stances. She looks gorgeous, an elegant dress incorporates her mail, and the silver features reflect off her white scales to impart a good representation of the empress despite her colour difference.

At Barclaiigh's embrace her towering posture brakes and she drops lower to return the hug. "It has been! Hello Barclaiigh of Clan Stoutbrew! This one is pleased to see you. Sprouts?" She smiles awkwardly. "Oh eggs! Yes! The hatching is imminent."

Tawyse gets a wave and a nod as well, "Peace on your Nest." She laughs, "This one should not comment on drama." Her goddess falls on the side of 'more is better'.

The Gnome snorts and chuckles at the Khazad's reaction to the arrival of Cryosanthia. "Eh, you've seen one Sith fly in, you've seen them all.", she quips, though it is said with a note of humour in her voice.

"Peace on your nest.", she says in reply to Cryo's greeting. "And while I won't argue with a God, I do disagree. Less is better, in my mind. The world's already hard enough without us making it worse for ourselves."

Tawyse approaches closer to the Sith, though stays out of hugging range, lest she be caught up in Barclaiigh's enthusiasm and be squished.

"Yer at th'right festival, then! Balefire's all about callin'n springtime." Barclaiigh claps and explains, perhaps unnecessarily. "Who's the silver empress? Is that where y'been? Her lands?" He claps again and rubs his hands together. "Miss Irshya has been takin' real good care'a the Tarrace. Everyone is missin' you fierce, though... 'n miss Sabina, too." He pauses and takes a few steps to look behind Cryosanthia-- as if making sure Sabina isn't about to pop out from hiding there. "Oh! Congratulations! I hope all yer lil'uns're healthier'n a crop after good rains and plenty'a sun."

The wildman hops and takes a step back, waving to the gnome druidess who'd been keeping him company. "This is miss Tawyse--" he looks at the gnome and then back to Cryosanthia-- "Tawyse--" from Cryosanthia back to the gnome back to Cryosanthia-- "Taw." He points a sausage finger from the firey-haired gnome to the whitescale, "Taw, this is miss Cryosanthia. I know her from her spot'n th'cit-- OH!"

The Khazadi druid looks wide-eyed at the sith-makar once more. "How's yer other'n? The wee pink dragon? Miss Lily?"

"The Silver Empress is the ruler of the unified tribes of Am'Shere. This one represents her when her she is unable to attend local festivities." Cryo touches at her helm which has some distinctly silver dragon features which enhance her head. It's decorative, a mask that stretches along her snout. She wobbles her head, "I haven't been able to return home in a while, this one has been nesting. It occupies a lot of time."

She grins, "I'm glad to hear the Tarrace is doing fine, and Irshya also. I miss performing with my band, and the baths, oh those were lovely. I miss them. It's been a while since I've seen Sabina, but Lily is doing very well. She's building things and excited that she'll be the big sister. She keeps finding bugs for us to eat."

The white and silverscale smiles at Tawyse, with a glance to her beetle, "little bugs. A pleasure to meet you, Miss Tawyse."

"Cryosanthia and I are acquainted, a little.", the Gnome says with a grin, "Though I suppose it has been a while." She chuckles. "Are the bugs delicious, at least?", Taw wonders of the Sith-makar, her grin quite cheeky.

She glances over to the grand fire. "Oh, there's someone I need to have a few words with. I'll go do that, and return with portions of whatever they have at the fire, and water. You two can catch up a bit more while I'm gone!" She nods at the two others, and turns, quickly disappearing into the group gathered nearby.

"Do y'have more gladhandin' t'do afore y'sit, miss Cryo?" Barclaiigh wonders, looking over at a rock he'd been resting on before helping Tawyse with the fire. "'Unnerstand about duties'n all so I won't blame y'none iff'n y'do."

An idea strikes the Khazadi wildman and he brightens. "Actually, I need t'meet th'folk here, m'self. Iff'n y'have t'talk t'th'elders'n those sorts I'd be happy t'come along?" He scratches at his beard and looks at his pile of things, then the beetle, then back to the sith-makar. One bushy eyebrow quirks.

"Egg brain..." Cryo says, grinning awkwardly, "some things slip my mind. Lily's bugs are surprisingly tasty and she can always find one at a moment's notice, so stop by for one ny time." She waves as the gnome departs, then turns to fully focus on Barclaiigh, "Yes, this one should greet all the druids present and be seen."

"Oh, Elders? Yes, lets start with them first." She drops into her Speaker-Caste roll, "Would you point them out to me, their names and titles, perhaps a recent accomplishment. The visitation goes much better if it seems I've kept up on topical matters."

She gestures in a lead-the-way manner that happens to indicate a large bear, and drops her voice. "Is that a druid in wild shape, or your Bear friend, Porter?"

Laughing sheepishly, Barclaiigh continues to scratch at his beard. "Truth be told... 's m'first time here," he offers an apologetic grin and looks after where the gnome druidess went. "... maybe we wait fer miss Tawyse t'come back?"

"Oh, no reason to wait. Life is short." Cryosanthia says, tail swaying with a jaunty bounce, "Let's jump in, she can catch up and correct us later."

The white skeened silver-scale starts towards a small group, hand held high to call interest, fingers wiggling and a quartet of silver lights forming to illuminate her. She calls out loudly, "Peace be upon your nests, Salutations from Am'shere and the Silver Empress, Congratulations on conquering the Deathwatch and may your..."