Of Cruelty and Kindness

It has been a very long time, and much has happened, since Seldan last was in need of Alba's wisdom and aid. Now, though, does he find himself in such need, and so has he gotten directions from the Soldier's Defense and others of the townsfolk, and come seeking the spidersilk ranch that the witch calls home. This part of the Felwood holds no fear for him now, although he goes fully armed and armored, and with full pack, just in case.

Now, though, he approaches the large sign at the front that reads Balefire Silkworks Ranch and Rescue, with its accompanying disclaimer of injury, maiming, or death, and slows his steps, looking around a litle warily.

Even for the Felwood, today is a surprisingly pleasant one; a pale moon hangs in the blue sky, occasionally obscured by scudding clouds, driven by a wind that sets the trees to gossiping. Were one to ignore the faint patches of blight that marks this territory as sitting on the edge of something foul and corrupted, one would be fogiven for waxing poetic about idyllic forest life.

The path leads up to a vine-covered archway that serves as the gate to the Silkworks, and from the vines hangs another sign;

       This is Cuddles.
       He just wants a hug.

And indeed, as Seldan's wary steps take him through the entrance, the vines shift, reaching downward and lazily beginning to wrap around the paladin's shoulders, neck, and head. Loosely, for the moment, but should whatever it is begin to tighten...

_Oh. So it is to be the gauntlet, is it? Very well._ Mindful that killing anything in here might go amiss, and well knowing that not every challenge wants the sword, Seldan takes note of the sign, and reaches out with empty hands to hug the vines wrapping around his shoulders to himself, as one might hug a friend. A spell is next, mind.

The hug is returned with a gentle squeeze, and after a moment, loosen; the vines retract, and the sign-bearing strangler slithers to one side of the arch, and the rail fence beyond.

"Much trouble Cuddles may cause," says Alba's voice from above. "But well does it serve to tell me who shall be simple, and who shall be hassle. It means well, but, few are able or inclined to understand the ways of stranglers... even kind ones."

Floating down, the masked Witch comes to rest a couple inches from the ground. "Welcome, paladin. I see you, and remember."

Seldan lets out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding until the creature lets go and slithers away, and he looks up at once as that voice, so well-remembered, once again floats down. "And I have not forgotten your," there's the tiniest of pauses before the next word, "kindness, those many months ago, Alba." He draws another deep breath, his tone even and more than a little reserved. "Yet do I find myself once more in need of your wisdom."

The mouth under the mask twists into something like a smile. "Few would forget," she murmurs in wry humor. Turning in the air, she floats at an easy walking pace to the small farmhouse. "Come, then," she says, passing within a scant few paces of a pile of dead, Fel-warped animals, heaped next to some blood-streaked contraption. A single pitchfork leans agains thte machine at an alarmingly jaunty angle, and the famed giant spiders of the ranch are nowhere to be seen.

Perhaps there's been a mass escape...?

Seldan's eyes drift to the blood-soaked machine and its nearby pile, as any farm might have a pile of logs and a chopping block nearby as he follows, eyeing it warily. "There has been trouble," he offers as he follows her, the direction of his gaze clear.

"Often this is true," Alba says, utterly unfazed by the pile of carnage so near at hand. "And when we have spoken of it, if curious you remain, the ranch I shall show." Her hair flexes, moving in the wrong direction to be tugged by the wind. "But we may speak of this inside. Come."

The farmhouse, compared to every other building in the ranch, is... normal. A perfectly normal ranch house, with barracks to one side of the front door, a decently-appointed kitchen in the other, and, off to one side a small nook with a table, and two chairs. Alba's hair snags a steaming teakettle off the stove as she drifts past, her hands collecting a pair of cups, and she gestures toward one of the chairs. "Sit. Share my water, and be welcome at my fire."

"You have my thanks for the welcome, and for the water," Seldan begins, looking around him with great interest, and settling into the offered chair. The hair gets only a brief glance, enough to trigger the hazy memory of having been wrapped in it once. If the man is the same, the equipment is not, and neither is the way in which he carries himself. No longer a stripling boy, this one - he moves with the assurance and quiet confidence of one much older and more experienced.

The cups are set down, tea is poured, and once again Alba seems to take special care to ruin the facade of a nice, homey farmhouse. He hair extends out in all directions, securing itself to roof beam, chair, table, and at least one unused picture hook in the wall, and sets herself a bare inch above the seat of her chair. "So," she begins, nails tap-tap-tapping on the tabletop. "The young warrior is young no more, yet seeks aid even still. He will tell me of the trouble he has found?"

Seldan picks up his tea, eyes on the hair that she seems to be hanging from without discomfort or trouble. So arrested is he by this, that it takes him a beat or two after she asks her question before he starts, tears his eyes away, and takes a sip of his tea with a sharp shake of his head. "A ghost walks Alexandria," he begins. "A ghost with no skin, for it was held down and flayed yet living. The corpse named three mercenaries as his killers, named _Toes_, _Blar_, and _Dunes_, but they acted upon the orders of another, a sorcerer of considerable power. For what purpose might such a one require a man to be slain in such cruel fashion?"

"As many purposes as stars in the sky," replies Alba, rolling a shoulder as she turns her cup in her hands. "There is power in cruelty, this is known, and not all cruelties are aimed at the victim. Perhaps the sorcerer wished to terrify Alexandria, and chose a spirit of blood and terror as his herald. Not all the living dead are thus, with chants in the moonlight and sacrificed goats upon a graveyard altar." The mask tilts to one side, and tea is casually sipped. "It is also known, that the stronger the fires of despair and vengeance burn within the dying, betimes that fire may linger when the breath has fled."

Her mask tilts in the other direction, rising fractionally as her shadowed gaze fixes itself upon the paladin. "Perhaps the sorcerer wished to bring these three fully under his heel, and forced them to create this horror to make them numb to further evil. When horror becomes banal, there is little that the cruel may not order done."

Considering the charnel pile out in the middle of the ranch, this supposition becomes mroe *immediately* worrying...

Seldan listens to this explanation, in turn sipping at his own tea and thinking about the offered explanation. "It is in my mind that the sorcerer did not wish to be known," he begins, gently blowing on the tea to cool it. "We traced the killers through the Frostmantles, only to find our contact within the Frostmantles assassinated by fire. We were able to piece together his notes, but Mal was noticed in his scrying upon the operative sent to carry the assassination out, and the sorcerer _disintegrate_d him where he stood, doubtless to cover all evidence. No, I think his intent not terror, but perhaps wholly another thing."

"Hrn... Careful, careful, but cruel enough to create a bloodied haunt," Alba murmurs. "Sloppy, then? The sorcerer is known to the ghost, perhaps dear enough that disagreement became seen as betrayal?"

"The ghost named his killers as the mercenaries, and would seem to have known naught of the purpose behind it. The village near to where it happened has the marks of the Hound's influence, although I cannot say if that be connected or nay." Seldan's reference to the Myrrish name for Caracoroth marks his homeland as clearly as his crisp accent does. "We yet know naught of the sorcerer's purpose. We have located one of the killers, and journey to the Perenath / Stormgarde border to seek him out."

"Notes you speak of, and the piecing them together," Alba mutters, fingers dancing a pavane upon the oiled wood tabletop. "The Nightmare Prince may be drawn by this trouble, or he may be its architect... But either way, there is power in cruelty, and a feast like this... Hrn." The witch chews on the inside of her cheek for a moment, and nods. "A pretty puzzle, this. Pretty enough that it interests me, to see how it resolves. Friend Spider shall be enough to see to the safety of my people, and they are skilled enough I shall not go amiss. When does this journey begin?"

"It was the notes that aided us in locating the killers, for truly are they scattered across the length and breadth of Ea. The search shall not be a small one." Seldan's eyebrows go up over the rim of his teacup at the offer to accompany. "Your aid in resolving this matter would be welcomed, if you can spare the time. We journey as soon as all are prepared, for we would move swiftly, ere the ghost show itself too openly within the streets to frighten the people. It desires justice for its death, and will not rest until it has it, I think."

"If this sorceror is truly as vile as you speak," Alba says, the corners of her mouth curling up, "then perhaps I may ensure the haunt is satisfied. Power in cruelty there is, but also in justice. And, betimes, the two are less separate than many wetlanders wish to think."

At those words, Seldan stops, teacup still in hand with both hands wrapped around it. He closes his eyes and lowers them, murmuring, "Vengeance is not the duty of a knight, and there is mercy in the Light." Although the words are spoken crisply and clearly, there's something of a faraway tone to the words.

At those words, Seldan stops, teacup still in hand with both hands wrapped around it. He closes his eyes and lowers them, murmuring, "Vengeance is not the duty of a knight, and there is mercy in the Light." Although the words are spoken crisply and clearly, there's something of a faraway tone to the words. "And yet are justice and mercy two edges of the same blade, always to be kept in balance.

The tapping stops, and the full weight of the Witch's regard is very nearly a tangible thing. Finally, with a long, heavy sigh, Alba allows a lock of hair to loosen from the picture hook, and strip her mask from her face. Beneath the polished, gilded bone is a yough face, with sullen, distrusting eyes. "Knight," she says, her voice low. "Listen to my words with both ears, and understand. In fear was I born. In fear I grew. Offered power, I, but only to serve the needs of the fearful. Mastered fear, have I, but wish I to turn it only upon the wicked. This mystery holds interest, but this is not my enemy. I shall not savor his terror if it is not wished. If rules there are... speak them, and they will be followed."

A thoughtful silence hangs, in the wake of those words, while Seldan listens intently. The reveal of the face behind the bone mask brings him up short, in surprise, and he turns over her words, in that silence. "Needless cruelty belongs to the Hound, and so shall I not abide it, and yet do I think justice needful. There is no need for the use of poisons and instruments of suffering, but neither should he be spared unless he be the pawn of a greater evil still. The one who gave these orders is cruel beyond measure, but we need not resort to the same to stop him."

"Then it shall be so," Alba says, perhaps with a startling lack of hesitation. "Much and more have I yet to learn of the gulf between justice and fear, this is known. Sarathrazz yet bites my face, one day out of every week, betimes. Trust his judgment, I do, and so may you." Finishing her tea, she hauls herself out of her chair... yet still with legs folded as one would while sitting. "Troubled, you seem. A cure for this, I have. Wish you, to see why Rescue is counted among my doings?"

Seldan's smile is faint, but it is genuine enough, and he finishes his tea and sets his cup down with a gentle *clunk* on the polished table next to him. "Many things do I think on, and yet is it better than it was." With that, he stands. "I would see this, for truly is it an interesting place."

"Come, then," Alba says, leaving her mask behind as she heads back toward the door. "Know well you do, to adventure is a perilous hobby. Many find aid and partnership among the beasts of the world, as I in Sarathrazz. But oftentimes, it is the danger that proves greater than reward." Opening the front door, she leads the paladin toward a large, open pasture at the back of the ranch.

"But often enough, the beast survives the death of the adventurer. Yet the beast is changed by their bond, infused by magic and now akin to a person in thought and feeling. And now, bereft and alone."

Seldan follows in silence, armor less noisy than most and yet not wholly without sound. He blinks in surprise at the explanation, obviously not having previously considered that ramification. "I know enough among the Guild who seek their companionship among the beasts, that is so," he says, oblivious to the _other_ implication of his words. "The beast does not return to its former state?"

"A greater cruelty would this be, I think," Alba says, resting her elbows on the fence surrounding the pasture. "To grant a beast a mind, a heart, and a soul of greater weight than the ordinary beast, then remove it? No... no. Magic clings to life, paladin, and what is done is not easily or kindly undone. So... Rescue." And with a sweep of her arm, she indicates the pasture.

A great green swath of land, dotted with shade trees and great rocks. Here, a giant scorpion with a crushed and mangled stinger, takes advantage of the sun to warm itself. There, a three-legged panther makes a game of being chased by a small boar. A knot of herding animals, all of different species, takes in a drink at the edge of a small pond. "Life may be cruel to them, paladin, and death may rob them of their dearest friend. But here, we give to them a measure of peace, no small amount of kindness... And it may be, that another in need of such a friend may come, and find among the broken one with the strength to try anew."

Having never considered that, Seldan cants his head in thought, and follows, pushing an unruly lock of hair from his eyes as they emerge into the sunlight. Almost as soon as they step into the sunlight - within a couple of minutes, a thready tangle of inky blackness has begun to form on one cheekbone, and along the inside of his other bicep where the armor does not cover.

Having never considered that, Seldan cants his head in thought, and follows, pushing an unruly lock of hair from his eyes as they emerge into the sunlight. Almost as soon as they step into the sunlight - within a couple of minutes, a thready tangle of inky blackness has begun to form on one cheekbone, and along the inside of his other bicep where the armor does not cover.

Seemingly unaware of what is on his face, he looks out over the pasture, and nods slowly, understanding settling over his features. "A kindness indeed, and one not often thought of."

"It was not until this place I created, that I understood what the priests say, when they speak of the reward of kindness," Alba says, her gaze resting on -- and perhaps, past -- the gamboling creatures taking their ease. "Many lessons, not easily learned. Many more still, not kind. This? A good lesson. One I heard with both ears, and the whole of my liver." Her gaze flicks to Seldan's face, down to his arm, one eyebrow rising... but what she notices, it seems, she keeps to herself for the moment. Best not to spoil the mood, after all.

_The whole of her liver?_ Confused, Seldan looks over at her at those words. The meaning is clear enough, and he nods, turning his gaze out over the pasture again. "Even so. There is little enough of kindness, among adventurers, this have I found. Perhaps it needs more. But ... the whole of your liver? I have not heard such phrasing, before."

A quiet, amused snort. "Always it confused me, when wetlanders speak of matters of the heart. The heart is a dumb thing, a muscle. It squeezes, blood flows. Enshrouded behind strong bone, it is a machine, pumping joylessly to water the body with life. But the liver... It is soft, unprotected, and if bruised clenches in agony. But even should a piece of the liver be cut away, still it renews itself. So... tell me, Paladin. Heart, liver, which compares better to the feelings of a people?"

Seldan purses his lips, nodding slowly. "I see what is meant," he agrees, "and yet would you not agree that love, that emotion, sustains one as surely as the heart's blood does? And in some, is it not more carefully guarded? Truly do I see both, and think neither thought wrong."

At this, the terrifying witch manages a brief chuckle. "Perhaps... but this is not a thing I know overmuch. What is oft spoken of as 'love' seems to me a sickness of the mind, and I have neither had cause nor inclination to study its meanings. But, perhaps I am wrong. Once I thought the stars were stains in the meal-table of the gods."

A quiet chuckle, then, greets that statement. "We all learn that which challenges our view of the world, as we live, do we not?" Seldan turns his gaze back out over the pasture of frolicking animals. "And though some of those lessons be difficult, still does their learning, once taught, bring us joy and understanding. Truly is it said that each person we meet has something to teach us ... even if that be only a lesson on what one should not do."

"This I do not know," Alba says, head tipping to one side. "But it has the taste of truth. I shall watch with both eyes, this, and see if it is a truth I do not have."

Pushing off the railing, she turns, nodding to the Paladin. "A pleasant visit, this. But I must prepare, if I am to be fit for journey. If ever you wish to return, Paladin, and perhaps to learn how it is that here at the ranch do I seek to return the Fel to its true state, you will be welcome."

As they have conversed, the thready, inky blackness has expanded, much as ink spills over paper, and is covering more of him. One can visually watch it expand, almost, and here and there, where the largest patches are, writings in the celestial script can be made out. "Even so, and so too must I. Prepare for cold, that far north is oft chilly no matter the season. Briefly was I there, in my training. My thanks for your aid. Meet us at the Temple District."

"This I shall do," Alba says, marking the script, and reminding herself to write down what she remembers of it before the memory fades. "An old enemy, cold. Safe travels, Paladin."