The Shadow and The Huntress

The Shadow and The Huntress

(9:49 Dragon)

Arlathan Forest was indescribably beautiful - even more reason to hate it. Although Avorra herself was Half-Elvhen, her pointed ears hidden behind her ivory mane, she felt no connection to the Elvhen at large. They had been a declining people over the years, nearly erased from history several times. Yet they were persistent, to say the least. Arlathan had returned, though perhaps not to its former glory. She despised the Elves walking about, their demeanors one of pride and bliss in this wondrous place. It made her sick, but she her feelings were betrayed by her own mannerisms. She had to show respect in this place, unless she wanted to be barred from the city at best, or perhaps hunted like an animal at worst.

As per her deal with Zazikel, she found a lead in Rivain on more Shards. Leads that had taken her to Arlathan, to find a guide who could tell her more. She heard of a wise archivist that resided in the Repository, but she had yet to meet them. She stood before the alluring building now, the sound of waterfalls in the distance accompanying the songs of birds flying nearby. Impatient to continue her present mission, she entered the Repository, hoping to find this renowned archivist in his study. As she entered the large building, she realized she had no idea where to start looking. So many rooms, so many shelves full of books, so much untapped knowledge and history. Perhaps she didn't need the archivist? Perhaps she could find her answers in the ancient tomes before her?

No matter, she proceeded further, attempting to find anyone - or anything - that could answer her questions. There were already a few Elves inside, some giving her curious glances and raised eyebrows. She received the same looks when she first entered Arlathan. She was an absolute stranger to this place, despite her heritage. Tutelage under the Qun only taught her so much about the races of Thedas. Even the Fog Warriors that she once led were more concerned with occupying Seheron, rather than learning about the wider world. A pity that she didn't know anymore about these people than she did. Perhaps this would be the place to start? Then again, she held no claim to the Elves, so why would she? She continued wandering around, lost in her thoughts.

The warmth of spring demanded to be noticed and it was in that spirit that Faelyn had opened his windows and study door to allow the gentle breeze to slip through his little section of the repository, a small sliver of happiness that he allowed himself as he worked. Though where there once would have been flowers decorating his desk, gifts from his husbands meant to brighten up his work space. Such days were long gone, such joy almost forgotten save for the small scraps that he desperately clung to in his overwhelming grief. 

They were not the only parts of the past that Faelyn held to. 

Snapping closed the tome that he had been correcting, it was time that this one be returned to it's place on the numerous shelves, another pulled from his endless to-do list that would need to be seen to. At least there was no shortage of work to keep him busy while his days and weeks stretched into years with no news of Cian. 

Brushing back a strand of auburn hair from his face where it was become dislodged from his long braid, tucking it back behind his ear, leaving both scars and golden vines plain to be seen as he stepped out of his study. While it was not uncommon to see others in the Repository at large, this was a place of leaning after all, his little part of the archives was often quieter, and so there was mild interest on his otherwise reserved face as gray eyes turned on the young white haired one. Do you require assistance? came his quiet, steady voice in the common tongue he had grown accustomed to using. The gilded ancient hardly looked his age, they so rarely did, but there was something distinct about this one that marked him for exactly what he was.

Avorra was nose-deep in a tome, learning about the more intricate facets of Elvhen society. An entire nation's lost history, right here in the palm of her hand. She read about some stories before Arlathan fell, most of no interest to her. A few, however, piqued her curiosity. Ancient leaders, long-forgotten wars, and battles that history had washed away. It was... intriguing, to say the least. As she put the tome back in its proper place, she took a moment to brush her hair behind her ears. She ran a finger along their sharpened tips, feeling the cartilage as they came to a point. She felt nothing for these people, true, but what could she had been if she had never been claimed by the Qun? A city-elf, plagued by discrimination in the alienages? Or perhaps adopted in a Dalish clan, cursed to roam the wilds as a lost nomad? She would never have let herself be claimed as an Elvhen slave of Tevinter, that much was for certain.

Her thoughts were interrupted as she heard footsteps approaching. She turned her head, making eye contact with one of the Repository's residents. The elf had distinct tattoos on his face, golden vines mixed with telling scars. She jogged her memory, trying to remember the name for them. Vallaslin, was it? No matter, he was asking her a question. She did indeed need assistance. Realizing her hair was still pulled back, she corrected it by running her hands forward through her hair, covering her Elvhen ears. She cleared her throat before she began to speak.

Unfortunately, yes. She started with her typical uncaring attitude. I am looking for a guide. Word has it that Arlathan has plenty, if only one knew where to look.

Taking a brief pause to let the words sink in, she began again.

I don't intend to be here long, so I will keep this blunt. I am seeking a Shard of Zazikel, and I am told that someone - or perhaps, someones - may be able to help point me in a direction. She looked at another stack of books, previous ones that she'd already gone through and found nothing. My studies here have yielded nothing, insofar as searching these dusted tomes. So tell me, are you someone?

It was an uncanny thing that the old ones could do, to go so very still, some marking it as a measure of their patience, others understanding exactly what it was. Stillness has a way to measure the discontent coursing through one's veins, but taking all the time in the world to meet out exactly how one wanted to walk that line. She was young, Faelyn knew that. But then again, so were the countless others that walked these halls and treated him as little more than a tool to be used in one's games. Their machinations in the world at large with so little a concern those they touched in the process. 

They were all pawns to these ones.

You come to one of the greatest houses of knowledge in order to find a guide? It seems that someone gave you poor information. An unfortunate thing, that. But you see, lost little duck, you have stepped into my particular part of the part of the repository, and that puts you in a very particular situation that you do not yet perceive. Your studies so far yield you nothing because you do not yet ask the right questions. And yes, I am someone. It would do you very well to remember that fact. There was hardly a change to the way he spoke, if anything, they became softer, drawing his listener in as he took a few steps forward, his fingers trailing across the shelf in front of him and holding them up, his pale skin not darkened with a speck of dust, held aloft her inspection. It is best not to insult your host's cleaning skills, young one.

Little escaped the eyes of The Huntress, especially from a high perch she kept overlooking one of the few ways into Arlathan. Nearby on the tree lounged her panther, enjoying the sun as it filtered down through the foliage. The Huntress left her companion alone, however, when a ghost of the past seemed to beeline for the Repository. Curious it would know where to go. No. She. She would know. The Huntress clenched and unclenched a fist a couple times, reminding herself with a bite of nails into her palm that she was not Qunari any longer. That the bas saarebas was no longer her target.

But the saarebas was a worry - a great worry - to The Huntress. To be in Arlathan would mean danger to the people who'd accepted her. Who'd made her the woman she was now.

Tracking the woman into the repository was a simple matter. Her footfalls nearly silent after years of training. Tracking. Perfecting her skill. Both as Qunari and as Tal-Vashoth.

Vitaar decorated her skin and her hair, the dark locks made blue with the thick coating. All of it pulled and twisted that morning into braids before she'd assumed her perch. Black and white colors decorated her face, some of it still leftover color from when she'd gone all out for that event outside of her home.

Even if she could not follow the trail of the woman, the voices would lead her just as easily. She appeared in view first of one of the archivists. Faelyn, if memory served on his name. She'd only ever really seen him in passing till now. The words that The Huntress used first were chosen carefully. Chosen so as not to alienate herself in the scenario when all she wished to do was help.

Is everything... in order? A hesitation. A want to demand what the saarebas wished of Arlathan. Of one of the archivists.

Avorra blinked once, then again. This vile, insolent, stuck-up prick dared to mock her? Little duck?! How DARE he? Her blood was practically coming to a boil, but she made no show of it. She kept her outward appearance calm, considering the sharp-witted bastard's words. He had a point, as much as she hated to admit it. She was lost here, with no more leads to follow. She needed his help, and unfortunately, that meant playing nice. She watched as the Elf made a mocking point to inspect the shelves for dust, yielding nothing. Alright, perhaps she was exaggerating on that bit, but she couldn't help her impatience in the matter. She had played this game before - the search for an end, with the feeling of time being fleeting. She was in no danger this time, but old habits were hard to break.

Consider your words, girl. This may be the only information we get. The Old God's words were swimming through her violent thoughts.

I have a name, you know. Avorra replied in her mind.

An irrelevant name that you yourself chose. But I digress - consider your words, carefully, Avorra. The remark was followed by silence.

Her eyes met that of the archivist's, betraying her deadpan expression. Oh, how she so desperately wanted to flay this creature. But that wouldn't be productive, would it? The whole of Arlathan would be down on her head in a moment's notice. Instead, she opted to use a more diplomatic approach. If she wanted information, she was going to have to politely work for it.

I apologize, the journey here has been long. Her words spoke true, but she could hardly make them sound sincere. At least her blank expression hadn't changed. I've stepped out of line - perhaps we've gotten off on the wrong foot. If now is the time to ask the right questions, then perhaps I can start off by asking your name? My name is Avorra. Now she was being sincere. For the most part, at least.

A new voice interrupted the conversation, Avorra turning her head both in irritation and out of instinct. At first, she didn't recognize the person. She was in the process of turning her head when the realization hit her. As she locked gazes with the archivist once again, her eyes went wide. The Vitaar. The black and white colors adorning her face. The voice. Memories suddenly flooded her mind, as her blood once again began to boil. Many of her friends in the Fog Warriors had died to this persistent creature alone. What was a Qunari doing here? Were they hunting her again? More importantly, why did Arlathan allow a follower of the Qun to walk these hallowed grounds? Then again, Avorra could say the same for herself.

Evening, Huntmaster. Avorra spoke the name of her old nemesis, lacing it with an obvious venom in her voice. She kept her eyes locked on the archivist in an acute display of outright dismissal, not daring to look at the shadow of her past. This day was already turning out to be eventful.

Faelyn's eye flicked between the women, the building tension thick enough to be cut with a knife. Sadly for all of them, he did not carry one on his personage, and so it was left to build and fester instead. The archivist was aware of the Huntress and her stalking ways. She may not have been born of Arlathan, so few that still drew breath were of the old age, and those that were now born here were little more than toddlers. But still, she stood with Arlathan, and that was good enough for him. 

Good enough for him to take her side almost automatically in whatever conflict had caused the venom to reenter Avorra's tone. 

He greeted her in his way, with a small, acknowledging nod. That remains yet to be seen, good Huntress. I think that all lies in the hands of Avorra, here. His eyes turned from the rogue back up to the intruder in these lands. He was not fooled by the shift in her tone, though the shift to perhaps a more diplomatic approach was appreciated. A civil tongue would go far with him. I am Faelyn Korath. The Archivist of Arlathan and the keeper of these particular halls. It is a shame to know that long journeys are what cause the young of this age to lose their manners. Though if rest is what will return them to you, I'm sure that I could find a bench for you to sit on. As if his own steps were not the ones that were constricted and pained by centuries of the whipmaster's lashes.

The Huntress was displeased with the entire situation, though little played across her features. Even after years away from the Qun, she'd never quite lost her stoic nature. Imposed upon her in her reeducation as but a teenage. Such long, old habits were difficult to shake.

But also useful.

For without the little emotion flickering across her face, she might have overreacted to being called her deadname. Her name under the Qun. When she was aqun-athlok. And living a lie.

Her nostrils flared, but that was about it for the moment. She allowed Faelyn to speak his piece, trusting that he could keep things calm and civil. Though were he not there, it would be unlikely there'd be peace in the Repository right this moment.

Twas more likely the saarebas did not know manners. For what bas did? They were not taught. And saarebas were nothing but beasts under the Qun. What else was one to expect of them? Manners and civility? Pah.

The Huntress glared wordlessly at the woman, though. She'd not bite on speaking yet. For she had nothing good to add to this situation. Except to stand by as a guard. Perhaps if she could have a word to Faelyn aside, she'd mention the problem she viewed standing before them. But until then..

Huntress. That's what she went by now? The rage was palpable. For every attempt that Avorra tried to bury it, it resurfaced. The memories kept crawling back into her skull; days and nights spent in the jungles of Seheron, fighting an irregular war. Victory was so close on the horizon, freedom from the tyranny that was the Qun. The Huntmaster had cost her everything. Friends, allies, her leaders. The closest thing she had to family. Washed away in a sea of flames and ruin, that Avorra herself had brought out in response to the unfair murders. The Breaker of Chains had failed, died in the fires that consumed the village. At least, that's what Seheron at large thought, and why the Bas Saarebas fled to Rivain. She couldn't bear the weight of her failures, and so she ran. The rebellion was over before it ever truly began. Now the island sits in a perpetual stalemate.

Calm yourself. I will not tell you again. Zazikel's words were sharp, putting an end to the memories.

A sense of calm washed over her as the rage dissipated. She listened with sincerity as the archivist introduced himself as Faelyn Korath. She ignored what she took as a very slight hint of sarcasm, opting instead to take it as a genuine offer of reprieve.

That won't be necessary, but thank you for the offer, Faelyn. Avorra declined as politely as she could. No rest for the wicked, as the old saying goes. She snickered with a light chuckle, trying to ease the tension in the atmosphere as best she could.

Though, I have to ask... She started, unsure of how to phrase these next words. The expression on her face was one of confusion. Perhaps I'm the pot calling the kettle black, here, being an outsider myself - but what is a Qunari doing here? She turned to the Huntress, the rage inside of her returning once more, but her expression transitioned from confusion to a blank slate once more.

More importantly, what does the Qun want with Arlathan? Or have the Ben-Hassrath found me after all these years? Tell me, Huntmaster, did those tyrants loosen your leash to correct their failures? Your failure? Avorra spoke in Qunlat directly to the Huntress, accompanied by an intense glare of hatred. At first, her questions were of curiosity, but they quickly became accusatory, followed by a sharp bite. She couldn't help the shift in tone with her next words, an age-old insult. Ebost issala, Vashedan! [Return to dust, Trash!]

A sharp pain jolted throughout her body, beginning in her chest and ending at the tips of her digits. She audibly grunted in discomfort, holding a hand to her chest momentarily. A gentle reminder from Zazikel that she was stepping far too out of line. He indeed kept his word - he wasn't going to tell her twice.

There had been no steel in Faelyn's eyes as Avorra spoke to him, carefully choosing her words as she did. She did not rise to his bait, perhaps that was for the best for everyone involved. But as her attention turned to the Huntress, there was a twitch to his hand, a straightening to his spine, his mouth pressed into a thin line. 

So the girl thought she was clever to switch languages, to make an attempt at deception in hiding her insults in another language. It was unclear if this was somewhere did often, Faelyn did not know this girl, but none the less, it would not be something tolerated in his presence. Not in his archives. Not to another member of Arlathan society. 

Before he had even thought about the action, the ancient elf had reached up that foot or so of gap in height difference, his delicate fingers reaching through white hair and grasping at the shell of Avorra's pointed ear and dragging her down to his level. Speaking to her in Qunlat, there was steel in both his voice and his gaze. If you see fit to act a child, then I will treat you as such. Come. there was no request, nor did he let go of her ear as he half dragged Avorra through the stacks, his other hand catching the hard back of a chair and taking it with him to be sat in a corner. 

Sit. Face the wall and contemplate the filth that has left your mouth. Once a civil tongue has returned to your head, you may rejoin us. There will not be a third chance. If you think yourself incapable of such civility, you may see yourself out, not to darken my halls again. Avorra was left to take her seat while Faelyn left to rejoin the Huntress.

OOC Note: This action came pre-approved by SKXR

The audacity lingering in the room was palpable. And The Huntress wanted to do nothing more than remove the threat. The threat that should have been dead. A ghost of the past that should not have been standing before them now. One that she never hoped to deal with again.

Each twist of words that followed the polite flowery language directed at Faelyn made her blood boil. She did not answer the question posed. For she was not Qunari, she was Tal-Vashoth. And she owed no explanation to an outsider. A bas saarebas at that.

The Huntress did not return the glare as words flowed in Qunlat. This one spoke too much. She blinked at the woman, curious what she thought gave her the right to use a dead name, to question her presence in Arlathan. She was a Marshall and she'd earned her right to call this place home. A right this one did not possess.

Parshaara, she quipped, just as Faelyn stepped in. Bless his level head and sense. And extensive knowledge of language, it seemed. Curiosity was piqued at the man as he dragged the girl away to sit in a corner. The Huntress couldn't help but let her lip twitch just slightly in amusement. A fleeting and uncommon look upon her features. And one likely only a few would recognize for what it was.

Only when Faelyn returned did The Huntress say more than a single word. He didn't even need to ask, as she began to explain her side of the matter in a lowered voice; for his ears only. I am unaware what you know of me, but I am Tal-Vashoth. Many years ago, before I left the Qun, I'd been tasked to hunt this one down. She was a danger to many, destroyed an entire village in a fit of rage. I was lead to believe the destruction claimed her life, it seems it did not. She let out an almost indiscernable sigh. And I fear what danger she poses to Arlathan now.

The biting steel was once again gone from Faelyn's features as he rejoined the Huntress, back to his reserved, but still pleasant enough exterior. He diud not make apologies on Avorra's behalf, that was not his place, and quite frankly, such words needed to come from her mouth if they were ever to be meaningful, though there was some part of him that doubted such a thing would come to pass. Instead, she was given the full weight of his attention, even if he remained keeping their trouble maker in the periphery of his vision. 

If you feel that this is a matter that requires your swift action, I will do what I can to aid you in that, Huntress. I may no longer be a man of the bow, but I am still capable if you require assistance. The safety of Arlathan, and our people, will remain a priority as always. It was true that he had not strung a bow in some 7000 years. But in that time he'd done more than enough leg work in the pursuit of magic, and his mind was still as sharp as they came. It was also true that he'd always held the safety of those he aligned himself with dear. 

There were whispers of what he was before. A rare few that had taken the time to understand the archivist's history, even if they did not understand the elf behind it all. And from those understandings came rumors, some true, and some not. Never had the number of elves that he'd helped to save grown in the retelling, but tell their stories he did, because at the end of the day, it was his belief that their stories, and their memories, needed to be honored. 

It was a delicate touch from a delicate hand, a ghost of a touch and barely there, that brushed against the edge of the Huntress' elbow. Are you alright...? What she said was cruel. I- he wasn't quite sure what to say there. He was aware that the Marshal was a woman of few words. But he understood deeply that sometimes the was those of few words that had the worst pain to bear.

Though flinching slightly at the contact, she did not withdraw. Instead, she answered. Her voice strained, yet soft.

I am not him.

It had taken The Huntress a great many years to overcome that identity that had been forced upon her. After all, no woman could be Antaam; it was not their place. Aqun-Athlok they'd called her. Proud she should have been to be so recognized for her skill. His skill. Proud to have served in the Qun as a man. He served.

That had been a lie told for two decades.

A lie that still hurt far more than The Huntress ever admitted. Not even her Kadan had born any brunt of this knowledge. Vela knew little. She had so much else to worry about, it was not The Huntress' place to give more weight to the High Keeper's load.

Despite the inner turmoil, she straightened her posture a bit more. All hints of emotion drained as she reminded herself: duty before self. Asit tal-eb.

The Huntress looked back at the woman - the girl. Maraas imekari. A child. Foolish with words not worth heeding - even if they tasted bitter. This time, she spoke loud enough to be heard, knowing the girl would understand. Knowing that Faelyn would understand.

The Council should decide her fate. Marshall or not, it was not truly her place to expel someone on their past. This ghost had not attacked beyond her verbal assault. No injury come to those surrounding them yet. Without that, The Huntress felt she had no place to escort the bas out.

It was a difficult corner to be in. Faelyn was an archivist, not a councilman. Where once he had been of noble birth, such days were so long ago that they bore no weight, and had not for the vast majority of his existence. The Huntress was right to say that Avorra's fate was not in their hands. This was a council matter. But still there was something that pestered at the back of his mind. The part of him that saw the woman that stood before him now. 

No, you are not. came his words, soft, but still yet firm. You are the Huntress, and the Marshal of Arlathan. You are right that I do not know much of your past. But that is not what matters. Who you are today is what matters. there was the shadow of a smile given, a small uptick at the corner of his mouth, a rare sight on the man's face. 

But it was gone as quickly as it had shown, and just as quietly. I gave quite clear instructions. Whether or not they will be followed remains to be seen. The option to sit and return with a civil tongue in her head, or to leave. As simple as that. I would ask that within these walls, we do not start conflict, merely finish it. The nightmare it would be to lift blood from these pages would set me back months at least. It was a small joke, his tone lightening just a bit with it. Though the archivist was not known to be the one to point humor out in such things. Though we shall see what the imekari does in the end, I suppose. If she remains within our borders, let us escort her to the council, hm?

The Shadow sat in her seat for a time, though her temper had long departed. She was here for a purpose that she was losing sight of, over a relic of the past. One that she couldn't seem to shake from her mind, it seemed. The constant physical and mental prodding from Zazikel, however, had set her straight for the moment. At the words "Maraas Imekari", she turned her chair around to face them, but sat right back down in it. She deemed herself civil enough to return, but it was best not to poke the bear any more than she already had. She kept to herself as she let them finish talking, not daring to interrupt their side conversation. Her hands were clasped loosely in her lap, as she relaxed her posture, leaning her body and head into the seat as she waited patiently.

Ironic that you should call me Maraas Imekari, Avorra started once their conversation finished. She was loud enough just to be heard, but not loud enough to sound imposing or demanding. Considering you murdered the only family I held claim to. The words were said calmly, without venom, without hate. Her expression and tone had both slated to deadpan neutrality. She stated the words as mere fact, not as her own spiteful opinion. Hopefully that would be considered civil.

But I digress - you are right, Faelyn Korath. I am a guest within your hallowed halls, and I have violated the natural order of etiquette in favor of my own... She considered her words carefully. Careless emotions.

I apologize for my conduct unbecoming, Huntmas- She stopped herself immediately. Hunttress. That would take some getting used to. Though, why was she going by a new name? She was Aqun-Athlok, was she not? Unless... Putting it in the back of her mind, Avorra would cross that bridge when she got there.

And I apologize to you, Faelyn, for disrespecting you, your companion, and your home. She was being sincere, but not out of the kindness of her heart. Only an idiot would do what she did, making the entire point of this journey moot. She had dug her own grave on this one.

I am not here for conflict. I came for guidance, for something I neither understand nor comprehend. She needed that Shard, by any means necessary. It is not my intent to disrespect or use you, Faelyn. I am a student searching for a teacher, but I should have been far more patient. Another brief pause. If it is your wish to escort me out of the city or to the council, so be it. I made my foolish choices and I will be the one to live with them.

I humbly request that you reconsider my presence here. My words were emotionally charged and reckless, unthinking. I was acting on pride and suppressed rage. I assure you that I will not step out of line again, less my head be stuck on a pike. She quipped, lacing the last bit with a tinge of rare humor. She never did jest much these days, though that was more an attempt of breaking the ice than trying to get a laugh. After all, the tension here was spring-loaded.

She kept her hands clasped to her lap, still somewhat relaxed in the chair, as she awaited her judgement patiently.