The Will Of The Sangrue River

[Elena]

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The Sangrue swells with the spring melt, its voice louder than before, restless, ceaseless, heavy with the season’s gift. The sun is bright today, its rays dancing upon the glistening surface of the river, as it flows, roaring, beneath the trees. The birds chirp overhead, their songs light in anticipation of the approaching warmth. A fox pauses at the water's edge, nose twitching, but it soon bounds off, a flicker of unease in its movements. The breeze carries the scent of damp earth, and the stillness of the moment feels... unsettled. Yet along the Sangrue's banks, the hush of the woods is broken only by the call of restless birds. A stag lifts its head, ears twitching, before bounding away from the river. A silence lingers in the air, as if the land itself has noticed something.

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[Elena]

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Inside the Circle of Elements, a scrawled drawing...

Green dominates at first glance. There are two gray spots - one at the top left, the other at the top right. A blue line winds along the bottom. Upon the piece, something took form. Etched in strokes both bold and trembling, as though the hand that shaped them carried the weight of fate itself. Dark, jagged lines wove through the image like cracks in the world, separating what was from what must be. A great tree, proud and ancient, stood at the heart, but its roots bled into the earth, its branches reaching not for the sky, but for something unseen beyond.
Shapes lingered at the bottom edge, where the blue line wound, wraithlike, neither fully there nor fully gone, like whispers of a passage, or a crossing. Within those lines, in the very weight of the strokes, was the mark of the artist's focus.

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[Elena]

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With this, the Warrior sets foot into the Wealdath... it does not take her long, and her stride slows down at a point of interest:

Looking north from here, one sees the Mother Tree of Y'Tellarien in a straight line. To both the northwest and nonrtheast rise the prominent rocky peaks that mark the southern borders of the Circle of Elements. To the south, behind, one hears the distant roar of the Sangrue River.

The Warrior turns south.

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[Elena]

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A Troubled Riverbank

The Sangrue River churns wildly here, swollen from revent rains, its waters dark and swift as they carve through the land. The bank is treacherous... slick with mud, broken where the earth has given way. A dagger is stuck in the ground. Who rammed it there and why is unclear. Deep gouges scar the ground, as if something - or someone - was dragged or slipped.

Amongst the tangled roots and scattered stones, a single feathered arrow lies half-burried in the dirt. Crafted by hand and made of cedar twigs and a bonehead. It is coated with what looks like a grey-ish white layer, which reflexts the starlight silvery at night. The feathery ends are coated with a thick dark green.

Nearby, a hand-woven leather cord dangles from a low branch, torn as if it was caught in the struggle. The air is damp, but faintly, the scent of crushed flowers lingers - a memory of something delicate, lost to the current.

Further down, where the river narrows, broken reeds and bruised petals swirl in the eddies, whisperingn of something - or someone - carried away by the relentless pull of the Sangrue.

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[Elena]

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Down the Stream

A sign
The rivers edge bears the mark of struggle... crushed reeds, a trail of broken branches where something - or someone - was dragged by the current's merciless pull. A fine thread of brown, a strand of hair caught upon a thorn, glimmers briefly in the fading light before the wind takes it. The waters rush on, unrelenting, as if unwilling to yield what they have claimed.

A trace along the riverbend
A disturbance mars the silt where hands may have once grasped at the shore... fingers clawing for purchase before bing torn away again. A feather, sleek and pale, rests half-buried in the mud, waterlogged yet untouched by decay. The river sins, not in welcome, but in hunger, carrying whispers of something lost to those who care to listen.

The current's claim
A piece of cloth, sodden and clinging to the river's edge, wavers with the tide's pull, neither fully lost nor fully found. Torn from something larger, it bears the faintest trace of a hand's touch, as if held too tightly in the final moments before surrender. The water laps at it, relentless, carrying its story forward with every pulse of the current.

Beyond reach
Here, the river bends sharply, the waters growing deeper, their voice louder, unyielding, untamed! No marks remain, except for a leather bundle, but otherwise, no signs of passage linger. Only the ceaseless flow, an echo of something that once was. Whatever the current took, it has long since carried away. Beyond sight. Beyond reach. The river keeps its secrets now.

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[Elena]

 

[Elena]

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​

In their reverie, something stirred...

Something just beyond the veil of knowing...

It was not a vision...

It was a voice...

A whisper threading through the fabric of their dreamscape like silver veins in dark stone...

As she focused, the presence arrives like a pressure behind eyes... something ancient is leaning close. The voice is clear... genderless, toneless, but thick with meaning

"A spirit passed beneath the skin of the world. Not lost. Not found. A scent lingers in the hollows. A song hums in sleeping stone. Ask not where it is. Ask who listens now. But be warned. Do not follow shadows, where roots grow teeth..."
Then... darkness

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[Elena]

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The Threshold of Stillness​

In the upcoming days, as Caerylia withdraws herself for reverie, there is a stirring in her dreamscape. It feels like a familiar breeze and she chooses to focus:

In their reverie, something stirred...

Caerylia stands at the shore of an unknown river...

The water is black glass, unmoving...

Overhead, no stars. Just a faint glimmer beyond the horizon....

As Caerylia focuses on the black surface, two lights emerge across the water...

One is cool, steady, like the moon behind fog. It does not move, but it reflects perfectly on the water’s surface. Stillness layered on stillness. It offers calm. Safety. No more choices...

The other is faint and flickering, golden, like firelight glimpsed through branches. It drifts beneath the surface. It pulses weakly. But it moves toward her...

And just as Caerylia is about to devote her attention to these appearances, a presence arrives like a pressure behind eyes... again, something ancient is leaning close. The voice is clear... genderless... toneless...

“One light waits...
One light wanders.
Both will open,
but only one will let you leave.”

Slowly, the river begins to ripple. And Caerylia feels a tingling sensation... as if something is forcing her toward either appearance. Subtle, but it manifests in her subconsciousness: She must make a choice:

1) Reach for the steady light. The surface, the perfect calm.
2) Step into the water toward the flickering light. Uncertain, unanchored.

What will she choose?

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[Elena]

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Caerylia steps forward.
Her foot meets the black water, and she does not pause.
She moves with quiet grace, each step drawing her deeper.
She reaches out - toward shimmer, toward change.
She does not falter.
She does not turn.

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Once Caerylia has made her decision, the presence manifests itself again in her consciousness. An inner voice, but not her own. Deep, timeless, ancient...

"Our eyes see, where others see not.
You stepped into motion.
Into memory.
Pulse over pool.
Come.
Deeper.
Where words grow on trees."

The water recedes beneath her feet like mist drawn into the breath of some great unseen beast.

She finds herself in a forest unlike any she knows.

No roots tangle the earth. No leaves fall. Yet every tree hums with voices. But there is no sound... not quite... but the memory of sound...

They do not speak at once. They wait for her to listen.

The grove breathes. Caerylia is breathing with it.

She looks around and sees two of the trees, more prominent than the others. Each tree bears a mark.

One is carved with a delicate spiral, like a whirlpool seen from above. Its bark shimmers faintly, wet to the touch. As she steps closer, she is surrounded by its whisper:
"She was never meant to return. Let her rest.

The other bears claw-marks, old and deep. Its trunk leans, as if burdened. As she looks at it, she is surrounded by its whisper:
"She resisted. Fought. She still does. Let her find the way."

Caerylia feels the presence inside... inviting her with gentle pressure... and she can feel it now. One of these trees will show her truth. The other, comfort. But the choice is hers:

1) Touch the tree of stillness... spiral-marked, gleaming, passive
2) Touch the tree of struggle... clawed, burdened, still living

What will she choose?

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[Elena]

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The Ar'tel'quessir, clad in her gossamer white gown, rests her hand against the wounded bark. Her voice is quiet, nearly lost in the hush of the grove.

"...Then let her keep fighting."

She opens her eyes, golden and unwavering.

"If she yet resists, then she is not gone."

Her fingers trace the deepest claw-mark.

"I will not let her be forgotten."

A breath.
A vow.

"Show me the way."

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"The Pool of Becoming" ​

Spoken again through the voiceless presence - now more curious, more watchful, less distant

"You chose the scar.
She chose the fight.
So be it.
We reveal,
what was,
what lies,
what moves beneath."

The trees dissolve behind her like fog torn by wind.

She stands now at the edge of a shallow pool, still as glass. It rests in a circle of black stone, surrounded by reeds that sway though there is no breeze.

Above: no stars. No sun. Only a great mirror of light, suspended in the sky - not a moon, not a face. Just watching.

Within the pool: two reflections of Fíriel.

One sits upon the riverbank, serene, legs folded, bow set beside her. She is peaceful. Too peaceful. Her eyes are closed. She does not move.
Around her, the river sings in perfect tones.

The other is restless. Twitching, soaked, in water, sweat and blood. Around her, the forest shouts in broken voices - warning? Or chasing?

A ripple stirs the pool. A voice - not Caerylias - speaks:

“One has found peace.
The other - unrest.
But peace may be surrender.
And unrest may be life.”

Two paths open beyond the pool:

A soft arch of willow trees, curved and glowing. The scent of riverlilies drifts from it.

A trail of broken branches, sharp-edged and uncertain, disappearing into shadow.

A breeze moves across Caerylia’s hair, urging her, demanding, another choice...

"Which reflection leads to her?
Which one is real?
There is no wrong path,
but only one that ends."

1) The soft arch of Willow trees?
2) The Trail of broken branches?

Which one will she choose?

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[Elena]

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​

Caerylia stood at the pool’s edge, where silence breathed and memory rippled. The twin reflections shimmered - one still as stone, one trembling like a leaf in stormlight.

Her hair, woven of starlight and sun-dappled gold, lifted in the unseen wind, strands whispering around her like ancient runes unspoken.

"Angharradh... Three-in-One, Queen of Arvandor, Mother of the People... guide my steps where truth walks shrouded, where struggle still sings."

The mirror in the sky pulsed. Light bent, soft and watching.

Her eyes opened, like miniature suns, gleaming like the moment before dawn breaks over silver leaves. She turned from the serene illusion, from stillness wrapped in song. Toward the broken trail she walked - bare branches like bones, path sharp with memory. Her voice, when it came, was wind through crystal:

"Let not peace steal choice. Let not silence swallow song."

And without pause, she passed beneath the twisted limbs. For unrest, she knew, was still breathing.

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"The Last Branching" ​

The entity's no longer distant, it is now close, trembling, the voice is like water running through bone, roaring… the song of water without lyrics. It is now, that Caerylia knows: The water IS the voice! The glowing eyes pierced the misty curtain. Caerylia saw clearly, yet something still tried to prevent her from looking further than necessary.

Caerylia descends into a hollow carved by water in the roots of an ancient tree, its limbs rising above like a frozen storm. The air is heavy with fragrance - river-mint, moss, smoke. The sound of water dripping echoes like heartbeat. The dramscape, the threads, that held everything together... created, formed, shaped. It dissolves. The forest falls away. The air becomes water. But Caerylia does not drown. She stands within the river itself, it is the Sangrue River... its currents forming glassy tendrils that curl around her limbs, not to bind… but to understand, curious. Before her rises a shape, vast and unknowable: the Ancient Elemental. It has no true form, only shifting density, light refracted like mirrors beneath the surface of a mountain lake. Its voice is not sound. It is intention, memory, awareness.

"I held her,
not to keep.
but because she did not move.
She drifted down,
into me.
And I did not know her name.
I do not hunger.
I do not love.
I do not grieve.
I am what moves between."

Now Caerylia sees a familiar body, it does not move. But there is a flickering, an essence, suspended in the current like a candle underwater. Her form flickers with familiar motion: fingers twitching as though drawing a bow, lips moving without sound, eyes closed as if dreaming within a dream. She is alive. But unmoored. A stir in her aura. A tremor in the light. Two paths open. But this time, not as illusion. They are real. And they do not speak.

One leads deeper - a warm place, soft and slow.
The other rises up - toward the current.

The Elemental does not block either.

"She cannot walk it alone."

Caerylia feels the essence, the will to live, to survive... to follow.

What will she do?

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[Elena]

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Caerylia was not made for drifting.

She was born of light woven with will, of moonrise across seafoam, of breath caught between verses. She knew - in the marrow of stars, in the hush between harpstrings - that the essence before her was not yet gone. Only... waiting.

Her silver-gold hair stirred, streaming like riverlight in the current. Fingers brushed the edge of the suspended soul - not to pull, not to possess, but to call. A silent vow: You will not walk alone.

She turned from the path of warmth, of soft surrender. That was not the way of the living.

She stepped upward - into the current, against its pull. Her limbs ached with the effort, her breath threaded thin. But still she rose, every motion echoing with the quiet defiance of life.

She did not speak aloud. She did not need to.

But the river heard her anyway.

"I will bear her weight until she remembers her own."

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[Elena]

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Fíriels Dream ​

It had been too long, and she had lost track of time. She was confused... lost... and weak. Too weak.

Rest. Only rest. So she lay there, waiting, not knowing what for. Only this: she had no strength to get up.

This ancient power, she felt its presence, and yet she didn't. With her eyes closed, her thoughts wandered.

They wandered, through space and time. Through the mists of timeless memories that swirled through her dreams like fragments, piecing themselves together from bits and pieces, only to crumble and disappear again: She walked a forest she did not know. The trees were too tall. The air too silent. Her bow was in her hand, but the silver veins did not stir. Ist pulse, her pulse. Gone. She didn't remember why. Or when.

There was blood on her wrist. It didn't hurt.
Her body was bruised. She felt no pain.

The sky above was black. Not with storm, but absence.

And then…

A light.

No shape. No voice. Just warmth. Pale and high. A shiver runs through her...

The light grows, smooth, thin… delicate. It is there, calling her, without sound. She doesn’t understand it. Her mouth opens, and the wind that escapes it isn’t a scream or a whisper, it’s a breath held too long. One foot forward. Then another. Slowly, she moves.
And while she moved, distant whispers rippled around her, like a thousand voices at once. It was difficult to concentrate on them, but she felt the voices focusing on the silver light. It sounded like the rushing of streams, the dripping of rain, the flowing of rivers, and the lapping of waves, all swirling together.
"You move with purpose." / "So few do." / "I have watched mountains rise and fold." / "I have watched stars sink into silt." / "I have watched names be given and forgotten." / "She came to me with no name." / "Only breath and silence." / "I did not stir her." / "I did not keep her." / "I simply was." / "I feel the weight of your gaze." / "What is it" / "I release her." / "Not in obedience." / "Not in regret." / "In balance." / "She was never mine." / "Go then, light-voice." / "Bring her into motion" / "Remember me not" / "I am the breath between."

She followed the light. A guide in the darkness. A leader of the forlorn. Carefree, in her dream. A pleasant dream. And as she gazed ahead, the light approached the pale silhouette of a wave, a ripple in the dreamscape... she followed, passing the veil...

Suddenly...

PAIN! LIGHT! A throbbing stabbing in her chest! The burning of flames in her lungs!

Smitten by reality, the elf is forced down to her knees - to bow... before life. There it was. Life. Instinct. Nature. The will to live. Her fingers extended into the wet soil, connecting, drinking from the earth, soaking, like roots from the ground, the forces of nature.
And her senses stretched out; the forest, it was alive. She, was alive.

Home.

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[Elena]

(Thank you all elves involved, who made a memorable journey possible! Thank you Caerylia and Solithiel and Keila, for your specific involvement and will to participate! I want to leave here a few impressions, from the "behind the scenes", as there was so much more to what can be read here! )