Meditations, Memories, Recollections - Aden Delaveth's Character Development Journal

[Aphel]

It was just for a moment, an odd feeling that made he hairs on the back of his neck stand. He stared upwards, past the canopy of soft swaying leaves.
They were red.
He frowned and returned his focus back on his surroundings. He walked faster now, his thoughts racing like a wild horse in flight.  
 He had never before been so scared all of a sudden.

[Aphel]

Valen. Cutthroat, mercenary. Not a nice fellow, liked his daggers. Rough voice, covers his face with bandages and cloth. Maybe a bit too obvious, but what can you do.  
 He had standards, was a professional. Would lie if asked where he hails from, then say it's Leringard or so. Hempstead was the truth. He was born in Hempstead, some back alley child. What do you know about the dirt and the pain, eh? You know nothing, highborn. Even I have standards, but not for people like you.
 Nimble with those daggers. He needed to train, learn how to be relaxed, be a hard-boiled merc. How would he grab his weapons? How would he walk and eat, how sleep? What was the first thing he did when entering a new environment? How would he act in bars? How when talking about biz? Hm. Talking biz. Who did he work for, last? Credentials?
 

 Aden slipped out of the clothes he had worn and into the burlap cloak, the one with the dirt and the grass and the leaves.  Time to watch some people, but first, go unseen, watch the land.  
  Make his way to Hlint, Hempstead or Leringard. Mariner's, maybe. Slums. It was time to study.

[Aphel]

Most of the branches he left unchanged and in their natural state after having smoothed the edges and made sure they were strong and strong enough for their purpose.  
 It took him some time to figure it out, but it was easier than imagined in the end. The cradle could be easily disassembled and carried like a backpack or a basket, and he made it in a way that would ease the task of sheltering the cradle from the elements, if need be. He felt old, very old and remembered his own childhood, or what little he remembered of it anyway. And there was joy in it, too, at least he thought it was joy – maybe worry too.  
 So one day, it was ready, the splinters and the sandpaper and the painful memories clawing their way into his heart a thing of the past. It stood, covered with a piece of cloth, atop a drawer, safe until the time was there.

[Aphel]

Little scratches go a long way. Brea always made a worried face when he came back home with some new injury, as if he was very creative in the way of getting them. Most weren't bad, they healed quickly. None escaped her, of course, and it was impossible to defend himself against her tender love and care. And he felt quite helpless against that frown she had. He found that a bit stupid of him, but he loved her too much to not let her care and bandage and frown. Oh. And giggle and let her call him silly. I have become that kind of man. A couple years back -
But this was here and now. He had, so far, done well – secured a house that had some space in it to store all kinds of things and provide them shelter from the weather, he had found friends and allies and a job that he liked doing, and even found that special way for him. A part of him was content with what he had, thankful for the luck he had. And still. He knew how fragile it was, the construct he based his life on. On travels, he still slept with a dagger jammed between the doorframe and the door and not in the bed. If he could, he slept outside, well hidden like the prey he was. He seldom took the same path twice, remained in the background, even changed his demeanor without thinking about it. A good sneak, sure. A funny person, a trusty friend. A ranger, a courier. Sometimes, Aden wondered if that was all nothing but a facade, a disguise that the real him hid behind. But what would that real him be?  Grandfather had been a hunter, a grey warden, marked by battle and weather. Grandfather had been something that neither mother nor father had approved of – as if there was no place for a certain type of elves, of behavior among elves. I never knew my grandfather. Only by stories, and how true those were...just ask a random bard. He had found himself thinking about his grandfather more and more often recently, about his parents. And about death. About hatred and revenge. It was something he liked to do, letting his thoughts walk round and round and change course and direction while he worked on something for the Angels, or was found himself next to Breanna, wide awake suddenly. There were only so many places and circumstances he was able to think about the greater, stranger mysteries of life and all that. Why do I wake from my reverie that much? Maybe there was something wrong with him, maybe there was not. In his dreams, wolves howled and there was a different kind of land and a lord that scared him. Dreams seldom held any truth within, but they made him think, made him confused nevertheless. Sometimes he dreamt he was back in Prantz, sometimes it was Briardusk. Sometimes he was hunted by an omnipresent and omnipotent enemy that knew neither mercy nor any limit. Humans called these dreams “Nightmares”, and while the elvish expression was a bit more refined, it broke down to the same thing in the end. He hadn't talked with Brea about it yet, maybe he should. Maybe he should not. He had every reason to be happy, and often he was – and despite all that, something gnawed at the back of his mind, digging its teeth into his soul. Maybe it was the accumulated weight of his experiences that came crashing down onto him, all that he had seen and smelt and heard and endured without much flinching, thinking or reflexion. Maybe because he changed, somehow, somewhen – he looked into the mirror his love gave him a long time ago – So you can see your wonderful eyes, too – and the expression in his eyes he didn't recognize. His training intensified.

There never had been a lack of trouble that he could get into, for better or for worse. The famine create a situation unique to him, and he was eager to master it. Beasts, bandits and all kinds of opportunistic creatures lunged forward to get a piece of the kill, to fill niches opened up by war and hunger. Opportunities blossomed like the desert after rain, and it was just a matter of enduring and observing to learn something new every so often. But still. He found something very unsettling about it all, a strange feeling breathing down his neck. For now, it was good to train muscles, speed, control, coordination and observation. Learn about tactics, strategy and motivation, too – but who can teach me that? One only could push oneself that far, and to get a certain threshold, one needed a teacher. Or something to spy on. Without, I can only maintain but not improve my form.
Or forms. Listening to a foreign melody, he waited.

[Aphel]

He watched Jilsopine and Sehky using their bows, and it was then, in the heat of battle, that a realization struck him and stuck with him. Everybody fought in a certain manner, used a form or forms: you can hold your weapon this and that way, you can move in this or that manner both over terrain or in combat, you can be blunt or complex in battle and so forth. He remembered Micus and Duchess who had been some of the few elves he had seen to be very proficient in classical combat with blades. And every elf seems to develop combat into a complex mixture of art and philosophy and stuff. That makes them more efficient, apparently, and capable to wage war and all the things associated with it. Sometimes, they had morals, but he had seen enough to understand somewhat where that goes and where it came from. There's no rule to fighting, and no morals can contest the simple principle of survival and procreation. If you're surviving and successful, you can have a new generation of children that will be more or less like you and adapt to what you can teach them.
  He remembered Briardusk, the fight against the cult.
  He remembered Pranzis, the fight against that dwarf.
  And even now, during the famine, power groups struggled over who would be the surviving party. Surface against Deep. An alliance of the Good against the Destroyer and associates. And  in Siphe, Hilm and Nesar the wheel went round and round again and again.
  And round and round we go. A sad world full of fools. But on the other hand, fools might still be better than gods or other things. And they make killing and art. Something like shooting a bow very precise isn't a very useful skill unless you plan to go to war. Or hunt something that is incredibly difficult to find and hit. But that means that you have plenty of resources to spent on fighting. So why making it an art?
  Jil and Sehky had very different approaches to their art. And Griff, too. Aden resented the notion of thinking of it as an art. Mighty elvish warriors, old and deadly their art and their techniques!
  And mighty the overall arrogance as well. He remembered his youth, when they had tried to teach him fixed forms with blade and bow. Maybe he was indeed the odd one out that needed to be brought back into the line, but why should he learn the cat-catcher technique that somebody somewhen had created and named mysteriously? If he wanted to catch a cat, he used what he had and caught a cat without going to a fixed flow of motions. Maybe he would have been doing better  - including the whole elvish image, whatever that amounted to – if he applied his discipline in hiding to other things as well. But they wanted make it an art. An art of death and war. How glorious and...smart. Too much resources, he decided. Their might be one or two things to learn from them, but only if they were worth the time to learn. He watched Jil and Sehky talk about something while he filled his quiver again.
  Bows only. And what if they are disarmed? Ambushed? No matter how quick you are, if you specialize you're unable to adapt. To adapt means to survive. And to survive, you can either kill without being killed or hide without being seen. Or combine both, sure. Whatever. I am thinking about this Art of War and Combat and elvish heritage stuff too much.

[Aphel]

They had a brief time of relaxation, and the Breath of the Muse was indeed beautiful. While the rest prepared and talked, he had found himself a small place somewhere to meditate and slip into reverie for some time. He thought of those back home before his thoughts slipped away.

He saw a young boy, a rascal with a wolf pup in his arms that appeared quite content with being carried around. The pup blinked lazily and yawned.
“I am you,” the boy said, “If things had been different. They weren't, that's why you have this dream. Bloodstone did what he did, but you parents had more courage. Now they're dead, but at least you have this puppy, a dagger, some rations and so forth. You would have made a great master of the wilds, a druid, a ranger, a wild warrior.” The puppy whimpered, and the boy cradled it carefully. “They would have called you Aden of the Wolf, if things would have been different.”
The boy smiled, turned and walked away, disappeared between the trees of what looked like Ulam Forest must look like.

The scene faded and a new one appeared. He found himself in a command tent. Outside, an army prepared for a march.

He saw a young man dressed in expensive clothes and a armor so masterfully crafted that it must have cost a fortune. His eyes were calm, bordering on being bored. An elvish noble, an officer. A fine blade at his side.
“I am you,” the man said, “If you had been more courageous and disciplined. Pranzis has fallen, but Llast is equally a nice city. They are afraid of you and your mind here, of you and you ability to make a career in their military. Your patience, discipline, knowledge and ruthlessness have brought you so far. You could have been a general, you know? They would have named strategies after you, and the elvish heritage would have a worthy follower with you. A new house would have been born, outside Voltrex – a new generation of elves. And Briardusk would have been your first victory. They would have called you Captain Aden Delaveth, Expeditionary Forces, First Battalion. You parents would be proud and scheming to get you onto an even bigger stage of power and politics.”
He cracked a sad smile, turned and strode away as only those with too much entanglements in politics do.

And again, the scene shifted as if curtains fell and rose again. A new stage, this time, some back alley in a city. Shady, damp, with dirt and trash everywhere.

He saw a young man dressed in simple clothes. Thin and shy, looking so average that it seemed scary.
“I am you”, the man whispered, “If you had been more courageous. Prantz might be fallen into the hands of a dwarf – but free souls never surrender. You would have made a good spy, Aden. And a good smuggler on the side, because even an elf needs to eat from time to time. An odd arrangement, sure, but this way, everybody profits – and is not sure who you are working for. Somewhat safer this way.” He smiled politely. “But you will never forget, never forgive, and never sell out. There's a line that not even Rael can cross. His head will be yours, and his dominion will be food for the wolves. That is, if you survive that long. Alas, none of this will ever come to pass.”
He man snipped with his fingers and disappeared.
The man and the alley faded. This time, he was shown a room in the Tower Academy in Port Hempstead. Brightly lit, with parchments stacked away in high shelves.

He saw a young man, dressed in simple clothes, with a smile in his face. He had his arm around Breanna, who, dressed in a nice garb, leaned against him while reading a book in her lap.
“I am you,” the man said, “If you had been more talented. Crime rates might have been reduced due to your patience and talent. And who is more fearsome than a spellweaving investigator? And thanks to good relationships with the Angels and the Tower Academy, you're both safe as well as successful. You read a lot, and more than once you have participated in trials against criminals of all colleur. You have a nice house in Port Hempstead, nothing fancy. And a hideout not too far away from the Lake of Glass, where you married.” He smiled.

The scene faded to blackness. There was nothing to be heard, nothing to be seen until the shape of a face emerged, a face barely recognizable from the filaments of shadow and darkness covering one half of it. The other half of the face was scared, and the eyes had the soft and cool gleam of a wolf. Bit by bit, the shape peeled from the shadows that were wrapped around it as if shedding a skin or a shroud.

It was himself, dressed in a rough armor that had seen many fights just like the rest of him.
“You have seen beginnings, possible nows. And now, Aden, you will see what you can be, will be.” His older self smiled. “This is how they will know you, as a good sneak, a not too hesitant fighter – if you let it come to a fight. You will make an excellent scout, and you will hide an army in the heart of another army.” The shape began to change, to shed its skin. “But after Breanna's death and the death of your child, the wolf truly found you.” The shape wore a mask  of a strange material, a skull shaped mask with scratches all over it. “You have founded a new path. You are a trader, a craftsman, and a scout, you are and always will be the son of your parents and the friend of your friends. But most of all, you are a warrior be that in the name of mercy, the balance or the greater good. Nobody must or will know the deeds that you do, a hero's fate is not what lies ahead of you. You are shadowy, silent death, but you are not assassin – since ancient times, assassins were a path of elvish culture, power and warfare. Some dangers can only prevented by those who reside well within the grey, the shadows – and might they be shadows themselves, without them, much more tragedy would happen on this world. You howl at dawn and dusk – the Longstrider's shadow fangs are merchants, scouts, rangers, monks – but first and foremost, they are wardens that life by his creed. Use what skills you have. Be silent, be quiet. Protect the pack and the hunting grounds, protect the balance that keeps us all alive. There is a deep wisdom in life and death, in love and hurt. You will understand much of it during your long travels. You will see Ulam and many other wonders, you will endure much and only walk away from it strengthened. They will try to break you, but unleash the beast instead – and they will become prey. And Longstrider be merciful, you will find love again before your life runs out.” Shadows wrapped around the shape like a shroud, and it vanished. Two amber eyes watched him from the darkness, and it were the eyes of a wolf.
“The time of trials, that is what life is. Remember that, my pup.”
Grandfather's voice.

[Aphel]

His son couldn't find rest again, was awake and crying and screaming. Aden blinked twice, shook of the last strands of his reverie, kissed Breanna softly and got up. She needed the rest and the sleep a whole lot more than him right now.  
 Hum and sing, pacing back and forth cradling the child. He didn't know that many lullabies, so he made some up while he went. He was sure it wouldn't matter much. As long as the baby heard his voice in a soothing, calming tone...  
 This is how my father must have felt. I won't make his mistakes, but that means I must know what kind of mistakes he made. An unpleasant thought, one that left him puzzled and pushing memories and things back and forth in his head. His son yawned and fell into reverie again. Or whatever babies did. Aden felt remarkably uneducated and decided to do something about it rather sooner than later. There were other things to consider as well. Such a peaceful face. Breanna saw so much of him in their son, and he saw so much of her in the pup. Gotta protect them both now. Wasn't there a time when I wanted to become, how are they called, a shadowdancer? No matter. I'm a father now.
 And he kinda liked it a lot. Little to complain. Things to do. For now, some more rest.

[Aphel]

Aelyn, Hyreth, Kyreth. None of those names had a ring to it, at least not in his mind. Oh. And he had been kissed by that elvish lass that howled to the Longstrider. She claimed to be a priestess. Aden watched the sand mixture turning into glass. At least there was no lack of ground mountains, even when there was a lack of everything else. Like names for my son. I should read more, but...better things to do. Why turn to books now? Have I gone craven or old?
 Later, when he was training with his blades, it hit him that the women could be up to no good. Or get in really bad trouble, with Duchess and her acquaintances around. One false step...it was sure a good thing to see what was on the bottom of this -
 That moment sufficed, and the stick he was balancing and hitting with his blades, trying to keep it in the air, hit him over the eyebrow. His fingertips were red and warm when he touched the spot.  
 I'll remember.

[Aphel]

-Do let innocents come to harm by your actions or inactions.
-Nobody must know your true intentions outside your pack or your circle.
-Protect your identity. You show your devotion to the Longstrider publicly, but nobody must know of us.
-Information is power. Gather as many as possible. Grow your own network.
-Operate without being noticed whenever possible. We are the shroud that cradles the innocents from the threads that lurk beyond.
-Know your enemies as you know yourself. Identify threats were they arise, and deal with them.
-Maintain pack cohesion.
-Be yourself.
-Be disciplined.
-Try to maintain good relationships with any true ally you can find, however unlikely or uncommon that ally is. We are strong, because we fight together.
-Perfect your training, and follow all sorts of paths.
-When you decide to fight, fight with all of your body and spirit. Do not chose to fight out of a whim.
-Be careful when showing mercy.
-When fighting, do not use techniques that prolong suffering.
-Failure is not an option.

He read it twice before he burned it, making sure it was gone completely. A good start. A bit to pretentious, but he was getting there. He was finding it. But am I cut out for shadow operations? Do I have what it takes?
He got up and returned to make bread to feed the hungry. The dough was ready now.

[Aphel]

It took some time until all was unpacked, sorted, stored away. Quite some time, actually. When he left Hlint, he noticed how much he had grown to like the place. But the house was too small, they had lived there long – and Kyreth needed a room on his own, eventually. Apart from a little bit more security.
 He searched the house room by room, and asked Breanna to look into wards and things. It was time to put locks here and there, some traps, hide stuff in the house that was hard to find – just in case someone had to hide some notes, or a special item. He took his time to study the landscape, too, which was a great thing to do. A little walk, taking Kyreth with him: carefully carrying him with that wrapped cloth thing Breanna showed him. Listening to him babble and chuckle, talking to him. Studying the landscape, where and how he could go with his family if things went bad, and where he should place caches. Where he could train, and who was living around him.
 And it was great to spend time with his son. And to give his love some space to breathe for a few hours.
 

 And later, he would think about how to support the Wolfswood Rangers and Jil. He could try and encourage other rangers and elves to help – Argus, Pixim, Elyees, maybe Cord. Maybe find among the younger humans those that would not mind to leave their home and who where called to the wilds. It would be easier if he had less skill in stealth and more in people and asking for the Longstrider's blessings. Just gotta work with what you have, pup. He chuckled at the thought. Kyreth cheered.

[Aphel]

For now he was free of it, as far as possible at least – he felt as if the scent and marks of the wilderness had become to be a part of his skin and hair. Being part of a city wasn't that much different, change your clothes, how you walk, how you look around. Take different things with you, things that belong to a civilized place. He had dressed into a common elvish craftsman’s garb this morning, one he had tailored for himself a while back. It was not as fine as the clothes he had made for more official guild business, not as human.
 A sunny day. He had opened both doors of the barn and all the windows he could find, watched the small dots of dust dancing like fuzzy golden snowflakes in the border between light and shadow. Farmers and their sons drove carts with hay home, women were chatting in the backyards and gardens while hanging clothes out to dry. But the signs were there, the...odd sounds and melodies that always seem to mark the desperate attempt to cling on to a normal life. The effects of the war seemed to be in every crack in the cobblestones, the slow and subtle decay of the houses that nobody bothered to fix because souls were missing, hands distracted with creating weapons, armor, plans of attack. There was still war, still rebuilding, still bleeding as well. They are leading them into a perpetual war for domination – good against evil, one faction over another, for money, love, ideology, revenge. Maybe soon, measured in the years of the elves, there would be a fight for survival to mark the turning of ages. Maybe there was some truth in the whispers that there was a cycle to everything, a circle that always would spin and eventually close before expanding once more. Guesses and possibilities – I hope that you aren't working on anything like that, my love. Insight can mean farsight.
 Fletching arrows was similar to shooting a bow – even if he never would have all the powers that Jil or Sehky had, in the end, it was about killing prey. It was the result that hold importance, the how and why one was trying to get to it. Those things determined if one was wise, intelligent, empathic, caring, good, or cruel, cynic, brutal and evil.
 He knew what his path should look like, and he knew what he could do so far.
 

 “No, that's not for eating!”
 He carefully took the piece of oak from Kyreth's hands. If he wasn't screaming or sleeping, the little rascal tried to grab, squeeze, poke or eat everything. Aden chuckled when his son made a face, causing his son to laugh and babble. When he wasn't dozing, it was hard to get any work done at all, and Aden decided that it was once more time to give Breanna some space for her own work and projects. He supposes that Midnight as well enjoyed the time she didn't need have the baby around when she was close to her mistress. Smoothing arrow shafts was a work that left enough time and attention for taking care of Kyreth.
 

 We do so little for our children, and yet, so much. Will you ever see the trees and plains and mountains of Voltrex? Or just pain and bloodshed?
 There was no way to make sure. Like the spider, he could weave a web to keep his loved ones safe, and like the gecko he could eat spiders. Wasn't there a legend about a secretive group of people who kept the old enemy at bay and avoided all kinds of misery and wars by doing their work in secret, by spreading lies and truths and safe people as well as assassinate them? There was a legend of human origin about that as well. The millions of dead during the Dark Ages, the millions that died now – all of them sons and daughters of somebody, all of them brothers and sisters. And still they insisted to keep up their art of war, the assaults, the moving in formations. Humans reproduced faster than elves, a fact that once had led an elvish general lead to say: “We deliver the weapons, you deliver the ammunition.” The cherry on the top of the cynicism cake.
 What he needed was either to find or to found an order of spies, hunters, assassins, craftsmen,  bards, scholars, spellweavers, thieves, common farmers, traders, rangers and swordsmen who owed allegiance to nobody but all, whose task was to ensure the surival and well-being of the all-pack. But what exactly was the all-pack, and how to root the order so deep that it would not fall into corruption, elitism and decay withing the first eight centuries of its existence? How to organize, structure, finance and equip such an order, how to train them? Maybe by selection and testing of possible recruits. There were so many ways, and more might have been tested in the past.
 Let's just focus on the arrows for now.
 Kyreth babbled while poking around in the small heap of saw dust and found it very interesting, while his father watched with careful eyes that the boy didn't injured or hurt himself. Jil would join the Wolfswood Rangers eventually, and was already part of the War Council. And maybe he should visit Lance in Hilm once in a while, too. There was Andrew, trying to deal with various issues at once. There was the Angel's Guild, and there were Daniel who was always busy and trying to get something to change for the better within the confines of the law. He never truly met Steel, tho, and there were other people he needed to study and talk with as well. Experienced, old people. And a lot of new people as well, younger ones, in a sense – lacking all the years of misery and war that the others already piled up. There was Elyees, Argus, Cord, Devarian, Ty, Charlie, Kat.
 Something to think about. For now, he would make hunting bows. And then there was the issue of the children that lived on the street, just like he had been, once. They needed a perspective, or the local thieves, bandits and armies would have a lot of new meat to waste.

[Aphel]

A crude, simple crafted arrow, made of an ornamented but weathered hickory branch and old, half torn raven feathers, is left in the den of the Longstrider on Dregar. The tip is made of a dark flint, and upon closer inspection, the ornaments on the shaft reveal themselves to be elvish writing.
 

  What does the Wolf, protecting its pack,
  know of the path of shadows and claw -
  What can the Wolf, protecting the all-pack,
  teach me about the hunt
  So I can protect my pack, the balance and the dominion
  of mortal and immortal alike?
  Life true, and find happiness in the laughter and growing strength of the children you feed and protect.
 

  Aside the arrow, a sturdy dagger, a bunch of bronze arrowheads as well as salt in small leader pouches, a few potions and conserved food is placed.

[Aphel]

He hadn't felt like this for a long time – by counts of cycles and years, he was young, yet, he felt time tearing and tugging on him as if he was some flag dangling from a pole. His name engraved into stone plates, he found it insulting, together with the songs and all that kind of stuff. His path, his part in it had been little more than tossing potions and dying again and again. He was a scout. He knew nothing of how to be a big  hero, nothing of the mysteries of this world, because nobody ever told him what others knew. He was shocked at their inefficiency as well as about his own. He felt his time being used up, as if it was already over. Hiding was worth nothing. It made him angry. Angry that he couldn't protect Breanna, angry that he wasted his time like this, when there were so many big heroes ready to solve all the troubles in the world. As if! Sometimes, he just felt like choking the pits out of them. Always the puppy, always. He was sick of it. Sick of joining causes like that one, joining the Wolfswood Rangers. His practice was going nowhere, he was hitting a invisible wall. And if the time came, he wouldn't be able to protect anybody. It made him sick to his stomache, but he just let the wind tear at his clothes and walked on. No skills with the bow or the weave. Nothing at all to present to the world. No good life. The life of a drifter, at best, street urchin. If things continued like that, he wouldn't be around at all to teach his son how to hunt.
 

 He hadn't felt like this for a long time – not since Prantz fell. Not since Briardusk fell. Not since he – he knew what, he saw the picture, but it was white. He saw his dead parents, but it meant nothing to him. Just something that had happened. It was his fault or maybe not. Path of the Claw, Kyreth, Breanna. Betterment of the world, one step at a time. The Angels, his plans. Protecting the pack, striking hard and true or promoting goals quietly the elvish way. Nothing ever worked out. The wind was cold, it cut his skin even here near the trees. He barely felt it anymore. Didn't let him feel, just walk on. Scouts. Oh, by the Longstrider that didn't find him. He just longed to be home, hug Breanna, play with Kyreth. Small chance. He was so far away from them, … All fight was beaten out of him, but nevermind. The best thing he got was advice and condescending behavior. Wolfswood Ranger alright. He was an unworthy puppy, barking like a puppy, behaving like a puppy, thinking like a puppy.
 He stood still, close to a tree, and listened.
 Just the wind, cold and merciless in these parts, around the leafless branches. He leaned his head against the tree, and looked over the landscape. Cold, harsh. A song. A song he could dance to, yes. Dissonance, from nearby creatures. A wolf and a raven, fighting over a carcass out in the snow. It appeared surreal, and Aden kept watching. He once tried to learn the language of animals, and the best he got … He kept watching. He was no ranger, no thief, no spy, no scout. He was no shadowdancer, no good husband, no crafter, no trader and no scholar. And his time was almost up, the Soulmother and her capricious behavior cost him dearly again and again. True sight! Ha! Spellweavers, knowledge types...
 And everybody was trying to be a pit-blessed hero, some real big number. And he didn't quite knew what he wanted anymore, felt dry, old. Gone, almost. His name, engraved. It was just as much unreal, and it filled him with rage in a sense that he felt empty. Gone. Irrelevant, bullied.  If you are good at stabbing people, this world was great. If you had some great mystical power, this world was also great. Now he needed a new name, if he still wanted to be able to go places more or less undetected and unobserved.

[Aphel]

He made Kyreth a few toys - and maybe Midnight too, they both seemed vexed by the wooden ball that rattled in a funny manner when pushed and rolled about - and it was a joy to sit with them outside, or inside when it rained and play with them. Midnight was mostly lazy but couldn't help to occasionally nudge the toys. Aden was always a little worried she might see Kyreth as a little toy as well, but Breanna had her well under control so far. When she had enough of Kyreth and the noise he made, she retreated to the barn and spend her hours lying on the beams under the roof. When he was home, there was little time to do something because either Breanna needed his help or Kyreth wanted to be entertained. Sometimes, he found a little bit of free, unoccupied time to advance his own projects. There were letters to be written, and six or more branches of oak, carefully selected, rested well hidden in his small workshop. There were arrows to be made, things to hunt, things to give back to the forest, to nature and to Folian.
And eventually, we will rise again.

[Aphel]

Who would have thought -
He sat in the garden of his civilised stone den, making notes and wondering if it would be a good idea to get in touch with a certain councilwoman of Lor. Past the garden, where those lazy afternoon shades lingered around the young bushes and trees he had planted, the human settlement was as labourous and active as ever. More gardens now, tho. People that grew their one food more and more, unable to rely on farms. Bartering was getting more and more important - and not a single druid around, helping and teaching. At least, not one he had noticed.
No matter how often wisdom sneaks up on you, some fools just stay fools.
He wasn't one for those arguments - he had enough of it during the Destroyer's Curse, enough with those elves from Voltrex, and enough now. There was a fine line between talking wisely in riddles and wanting to teach, and being a fatalistic elitist with the nose so high that the rain could drown you. There was some ground in between, and he wasn't quite sure where to put Freckled Owl. Maybe he had to meet more druids; most likely, that was it. On the other hand - why did he had the feeling that they were always so narrow-minded on certain things? Everything had its downsides. Maybe it was because they didn't bother to look at other walks of life much, at other forms of community. And he found that weird.
Of course, in the end, nobdy was perfect and entitled to own personal failures. For Aden, elves were a bit different in that regard. Longer lifespan, different culture - which he seemed to somehow have missed during ... when he should have learned it - different kind of body, sight sleep - all that kind of stuff. Some elves had different ideas that he came to not like (mostly it had to do with an elvish supremacy idea - what would life be without grumpy dwarves and their beverages, halflings and their sport of stealing pie - the best kind of sport ever invented - and human can-build-that attitute.)
He wasn't there to teach, not now - just to learn and to observe. To train. Experience. Walk down the path and see what happens. Right now, he could not find any motivation whatsoever to help anybody, there were enough heroes around to get the job done. Sure, they needed the meat that could be put on the line, fodder for the frontlines and all the things that better be done by expendable people.

Aden stretched his long legs and frowned on Kyreth curling up next to Midnight. On the other hand, that might just be less dangerous and more comfortable than it looked. Somebody kissed him on his neck, and he turned around and smiled back at his wife.
Actually, I should be smart and quit this stuff, enjoy this time of happiness...
Breanna would be against it. It was dangerous to quit -- not only because it made idle, lazy and weak, unable to protect one's pack. And the whole rest who needed to be kept at their toes from time to time. On the other hand, if nobody gave a dime about him or his opinion - sure he wasn't the only one with that problem - but why should he care overtly much and not simply go ahead with a "Well, it's your problem now" attitude.
Because it's what we do, and what we are, wolf. You owe it to me, to your mate, your pup and your own bloodline - even if you seem not to care at all about the latter.
The Greymane would say that - well, if he could, but why would the Longstrider talk to him anyway?
He'd always be the pup - unless he found some elusive circile of people who could teach him, and so far, they either were way too good in hiding or there simply was none. No matter how much he trained and endured and tortured himself -
Sure, there were always too few people bothering with the more menial tasks - gathering and analysing information, running errants, getting supplies. Non-hero stuff. Boring, mostly. Somebody had to do it, sure, and get no thanks for it. Like doing the laundry. Just ... more elaborated.
Yeah. I am stuck big time.
And there were no mentors (all those higher-ups  were terribly busy all the time), no elvish old and wise mentors, no nothing. Well. Too weak for that.

Next up: T'oleflor. Bridges. Heroes in Lor. Interesting couple. Would be interesting to meet. Talk with Master Storold as well. Hm. Story time. Evening in the house. Let's plan that, and a meeting for new ranger recruits. Easy things, quick things first when I can do them.

"Breanna, what do you think of inviting Storold and a few others over..."

And here I go again...

[Aphel]

Existance was a delicate balance between things, a balance only reached by a few. He tried to split up his time between travelling and family, between work and relaxing with his family, but somehow never found the perfect balance.
He had made his own training dummy, a strange looking contraption, practised dodging, parrying, evading. At day, at night, blindfolded. Learned, slowly, to extend his senses. First without any help, then with his encircling belt, with his eyes closed.
Continued practising to play with other people's perception and senses.
Continued to dreamwalk. And he couldn't await to see Kyreth take his first steps.

Ever since he first started climbing, walking, jumping, he had dreamt of a strange place. It seldomly had the same shape, appearance, smell. In his early youth, these dreams had been dreams of freedom. Running free. Islands floating in the air, one only had to dare to jump from one island, from one tree to another. Cross the gap, see the clouds move below, slowly, gracefully. Sometimes, the ruins were old. Human, dwarf, mostly elvish. Memories drifted like mist, touchable and yet not, faint images of what had been. But it always was running. Moving. Being free, not restricted by matter or other things. It was always him, alone, like a shadow clad in a twirled shroud of mist. His dreams were strange. Sometimes, he dreamt of being a wolf, a wolf that could run and move everywhere, any surface. Jump from one wall to the next, float, glide. There was always a strange music in the air, well, not music. Something similar, but not quite. When he grew older, he noticed that he was not alone here in this strange place. Sometimes, he was hunted, sometimes, he was the hunter -- it was a game of tag, very elaborate, had more to do with style, with insight into how to move, to dance with the wind and the leaves and the stones and the shadows. He seldomly visited this place in nightmares, only once, when his home fell and death struck. He carried two orbs covered in twirling mist through the place, as if to show them something, this place, and to bring them to where all threads met, there he placed them between the roots of a strange tree guarded by a wolf, an owl, a falcon and a bear. He thought it had been the souls of his parents, being showed their sons world, a very strange and not quite elvish world.
And he moved on. He guarded the place, never told anyone, not even Breanna. The real world was much more ... complicated. But what his mind learned in these strange dreams, what happened when his mind relaxed and he slipped into riverie -- sometimes, his muscles remembered. There was a grace in moving, in being on the move. In being strong and hard and enduring; and in hunting and killing as well. Even now he dreamt these dreams, sometimes. It required practise, technique.

Filcillnya anira laaco.

[Aphel]

Far from home, grass his pillow
a ranger rests his head.
Far has he come, much has he seen,
much less reported back.

In snow and ice, in the black of night,
he walked on, never left the track
Unknown, no medal ever adorns his chest
the things he does are secret and hidden.

Far from home, shrouded in shadow,
a ranger watches in silence
Long were his stalks, far has he gone,
much more remains undone.

Aden slowly rested his hand on the young man's arm, pushing him down gently and motioning to him to be silent. This was always the hardest part of the hunt: to wait for the right, and the exactly right moment, and then strike. Covered in mud, soaked to the bones, cold as ice, muscles cramping it was a time when your body was reduced to a miserable wreck, and the only way to survive was to live in one's mind, find that balance. Focus. Don't think. Rely on instinct. It was something Aden learned too early in his life, and Arden as well. The human was young, a boy almost. But he was a quick learner.
They waited for exactly the right time, exactly the right spot, and raised their short, camouflaged bows in unison; grey, miserable, unkempt faces in the shade of soggy hoods colored like the trees and brush covering the rangers. Arrows hissed, found their target, leaving it bolting. One last rattling breath, red life flowing into the muddy leaves. Old, broken pawns relaxing as the old bear's spirit was eased and drifted into Greymane's hunting ground. Maybe one day, maybe tomorrow, a shaman would call upon the essence of the bear, asking it for help or guidance. And without a broken, weak body the bear would regain its pride and strength. Aden felt no sorrow or remorse, they gave the old one peace and eased his pain; and in return the old one gave them meat, fur and bones. Bears did not pass on knowledge to pubs, at least not these male bears. Some said it was cruel to hunt down a creature like that, but Aden had known before Briardusk that death could be a release. It eased the spirit. And so he took and carried home a part of the bear. He had been there, at the path of the bear, in the right place at the right time, to cut the strand that still bound the old one to its broken body, and he cut it. A lesson well learned, earlier on.
Arden, the young orphan from Mariner's Hold was very quiet when he cooked the bear afterwards. Given that the boy was always quiet, Aden took it as a sign. Maybe they should have left him in camp, but with Bjoern's broken leg they missed one bow. And everybody fights, stalks, hunts, and does their part. No exceptions. Not even for the young, new and weak ones. Not out here, not in the Wolfswood Rangers. Well, Arden wasn't a member of the pack by now, not officially. They had found him on one of the muddy roads leading inland from the harbor city, and took him into their custody. Aden had been quiet, "organizes" the boy a bow and a shortsword. Didn't hand them over to him - that was not his task. When the boy would be ready, they would give them to him. The bow the boy used on the hunt today was only a loan, and he had to hand it back once they were back at Camp. The dagger, however, was his - every ranger had one. It was an everyday tool, something one had to be trained with and accustomed to carry around and care about. Aden remembered his early days, they hadn't been much different.

"What's on your mind, Ard?"
The young man continued to carefully add salt to the meat. Salt Aden had carried in his pack back to the Wolfswood. It was one of the most valuable resources here, salt was nearly a luxus commodity. Let the Hempstead richfolk import pepper all they like, he thought, let them revell in the abundance if that's all they can do. Carefully, he glued the feathers to the arrow shaft, with all that rain it was much harder than expected. Hopefully, they would stick once they were dry. Aden was mostly worried about the shafts bending once they dried from the rain, but if - if! - Bjoern had found real dry wood, that would not be much of a problem at all. Maybe the glue and the string would fail, instead. Lots of maybes, these days.
"There's a storm coming."
Aden nodded. "A bad one, but ain't it always?" The boy just shrugged in response and continued his work. He had a lot to learn. "Do you need these bones for those pipes of yours?"
"Yeah."
Monosillabic conversations. Bjoern tended to the fire. Smokeless as possible. You could smell them, but this deep in the woods, they should be safe. This was the ranger's home territory, but Aden still meditated uneasily and didn't quite dream as he was used to. Saw vague shadow spectres, usually, he dreamt in color. Humans slept much longer, deeper as well. So it was him who would do the lonely watches, knowing that the other elves in the rangers did the same. Knowing that somewhere out there were all kinds of things he didn't know but could very easily kill him. And then there were the things that he knew and still could kill him. They kept enough arrows ready and their blades sharp. Aden used what skills he picked up from the Angel's and did what he could. The problem was time. And resources.

"Don't you have a home? I heard somebody say as much."
Breath condensed grey in front of their mask-covered faces. Maybe the boys had heart things about the elvish prince or whatever others tried to mock him with. Aden remembered Freckled Owl and his words of who he was and what he should do to prove himself worthy. The druid still seemed much of hermit to him, and he still not quite liked nor understood him.
"Ranger's don't have a home, if they have, it's with their pack. So it's here and there, Arden." Maybe the Pack wasn't the best place to grow up. Maybe. For some, it was just the right place, if they survived the harsh place. The boy fiddled with the bones, uneasy, tense, restless. It took him four days to make the pipes, two more to sew the bag. And that was only because they had some spare leather.

Waiting in the camp meant making things, repairing things, and drill, lots and lots of drill that was supposed to beat you until you were completely wet, muddy, cold, sore, and miserable - or, just in the comfort zone of what real stalks would look like. They trained day, night, rain, sunshine, no matter what. This was the way of the Wolfswood. It was actually relaxing, you didn't have to worry about food and fire wood and a place to sleep every day while on the move. By now, Aden sure know that he wasn't a son of the woods or anything else a druid might find nice, if anything, he was the son of dirt, mud, cold, pain, blood, sweat, hunger, feat and the stalk. The hermit could be a hermit and say that it's wrong to steal metal from the bones of the world, or that cities are a curruption - them druids had all those wonderous abilities that enabled them to be quite high-brow about those who had not. Aden didn't care. Teach your pups, fill your ranks. Train. Fight. Learn. Surivive. Metal was better than stone in most cases - unless one was a real wizz in creating stone tools and weapons - and the nature, well. Long debates about nature and what was the nature of wolves, what was balanced and what wasn't. Wolves had teeth, scent, claws, fur, honed instincts and reflexes. Humans, elves and such were a little more...gifted in the thinking-part. Making tools, improvising, learning and improving was their nature, and how they spread above the world just proof how good and successful a predator they were. All in all, very natural. And neither side, Aden knew, was in possession of the truth. It was far more complex than that. Like music, a symphony, unseen and unheard, with its own history, its own passed masters and charlatans. But still, it was music, individual to each ear, different to each interpretation. That was something that made him smile often, just a little piece of insight he found rather valuable. Something to hold on to. And build on.

Dancing with blades. Fighting, raw, qick, graceful and utterly brutal. That's how it was taught. Arden was better in it than him by now, Aden was more about the grace, it flowed in his blood. Quick, focused applications of aggression and violence. Sometimes like a pointy stick, sometimes like a scapel. But never like a club or dull knife. Unlike the others, he lacked the strength in his muscles and used what reflexes, agility and body control he had to compensate for it. It worked rather well, but sometimes he still had to pull splinters from his skin, tend to small cuts and bruises.

It took the boy some days, but one evening, he was done, fitting the pieces together like a great puzzle. And for the first time, the bagpipe squealed, hummed, lamented at nightfall in the camp. Too loud, maybe, but most of the rangers came to scold, and then to listen to what the boy could coax out of this outlandish appearatus made from bone and leather. Aden smiled  and honed the nicks out of his blades, making sure the enchantment glyphs were ready to invoke their power.
And Arden, the boy with the messy hair, played and played songs as if from a different plane, or a different land at least. Somewhere with green hills, somewhere where one would always be lonely.
Aden had seen the landscape before, but couldn't really remember, but he smiled. It would be good if the boy survived, maybe. Improve the ranger's morale, adding one talented musician to them. Maybe he could send the boy to Andrew, if that vagabond ever was around in his own tavern. Maybe. Out there, in the rainy, soggy forrest were lots of creatures that wanted to kill him and the other rangers. Some of them had dark skin, eyes like burning coal and weaved nets darker than nightdark silk.


If it wasn't for the feeling and its behavior, the thread between his fingers could have been made of his son's or his wive's hair, dark, with a slight midnight blue hue to it, if one held it into the light just right...
"What're you doing there?"
Aden looked up and saw Arden looking at the thread in his hands which had been weaving itself between his fingers.
"Meditating."
"Yeah. An elven thing?"
"An elven thing."
No need to explain to the young one what he had been thinking or meditating about. He let the thread loop slip back into its original form carelessly. Another lesson, there: no matter how good you were at weaving the thread loop between your fingers, in the end, it would always be a loop and remain a loop. A valuable lesson.
"I've heard there's trouble back at home..."
"Voltrex is not my home."
There was a lot of this talk recently, sometimes it was a faint whisper, sometimes it was spoken aloud, and rarely was it ever directed to him or other elves. With food shortages and all the other things going on, it was hard to close that can of worms. Elves, go back home - harsh, ignorant racism he learned to get used to very early in his life. Let them open and close their mouths, emitting strange sounds. If they didn't shut up or got respectless, the kind of people that are only impressed by strength and even reinforced in their believes in such cases..
The boy tried to be apologetic, no matter. Aden had a hard time feeling home here, or anywhere. They all died so quick, so fast. They had a hard time to adapt to him, how he did things, although it wasn't as bad here as some other places. The debacle with the whole Destroyer's curse, his role in so many wars, relief efforts. Things to do, places to go, sights to see. There was a lot of good work to do, and usually, what he did was of pretty small scope, irrelevant, sometimes hindered, sometimes ignored by the typical hero folk. Going to Voltrex. He wasn't going to Voltrex and die there at the hands of the Old Enemy or endure his fellow elves. That'd be more pointless than spending hours here, living up to some ideal. They needed to recruit people, teach people, gather resources and rebuild something that was lost long ago, something that had sense amidst all this nonsense the world spew up day in day out.
On the other hand, it was impossible to achieve. Focus on the prey, not on the moon. Try to see things as they are, not as they should be. He send the boy away, to see if there was some work to be done elsewhere.
For the first time since long, he thought that it'd been better to study what his parents wanted to teach him, become all high and mighty and so narrow minded that not even a mouse would find a way to run along there. It'd have saved him a lot of all this conundrum.
Additionally, magics, proper education, riches, and a quick death if he messed it up. How beautiful. And he could be a complete annoying snob. That'd been nice.

At night, he slipped out, climbed a tree and stood watch in his way: jumped, moved, slowly, like a shadow. Nearly missed a tree branch or two, if it had been a little darker -
Yes. His way. A stalker in the night, silent observer, scout. Protector, walking unseen. A hunter by day, craftsman, mercenary, trader. There was something deeply mundane and mysterious about it, a face unseen by many yet known by too many. He should think more, act less on impulse.
That night, he stood watch. If the other guards noted him - he was sure of it, and at the same time, maybe he was wrong about that...

[Aphel]

The days and weeks after the Shortstrider had left, he was even more quiet than usual. Both the famine and its effects caused some heated arguments among the rangers, and while Aden was more on the side of the moderate opinions, he was often silent or reminding them that discord would weaken the pack. It was a problem, of course, but it's implication were complicated. Some said it was a sort of rebalancing, then again, of what? If the balance implied that the druids themselves had to go so a equilibrium could be reached again, then what?
  He sent himself to Mariner's Hold with the acceptance of his superiors, and quietly observed, trying to find those worthy of teaching the ways of the Rangers, observed them, protected them from the shadows against the quarrels. That was all he could do for now.
  Prepare against the storm to come.

[Aphel]

The whole thing with Mariner's Hold and the famine was getting worse, on the other hand, this was nothing. His experiences when following Charlie and trying to protect people mostly from their own actions had not exactly put him into high hopes. He still didn't get how druids could be so cold to wish the dead of hundreds of creatures in the name of the balance when teaching was just a bit harder, but he could see their frustration and thus, their point.
 Which did not stop him from doing something, tho. Remaining hidden or in disguise he tried time and time again to find, observe and protect the city dwellers, provide them with a shred of hope, insight, food. Andrew was doing his thing, as he always was, but if he didn't start to bring all possibly allies to the table, he would fail. And so would the rulers and all the others. It did not matter. If they could not communicate and were swept away by the riots, uprisings, the violence caused by the famine because they all acted like caged animals too stupid to use their intelligence and compassion, well, what could he do about it? In the end, maybe it was the survival of the fittest, at least, for the time begin.
 He reported back to the Rangers what he had seen. Protect the pack, yes. This one. But he also protected his family and all the other people, they were his pack too. Most living things were. It was a delicate job to prevent clashes between them, it required disguise, lies, stealth, nimble fingers and a quick mind as well as a large dose of wisdom.
 He would protect his hunting and roaming grounds – while this plane might still dissolve in war over dwindling resources and power, he could at least try to stall it, to change it. No matter the ultimate fate of this plane, people had to prove their worth of being here, being alive and having the gifts they once got for free. He would to, what he do best, even if people like Daniel didn't like to see it. He remembered to talk with the old Rofireinite as well as with Connor, wherever he was. Matters of planes, traveling, philosophy and such. One step after another, but at least he saw the trail clearly now in front of him. Wolves always stepped into the track made by the leading wolf in the snow. And so, Aden would follow the Graymane and his wisdom to their common task, their hunt, their stalk. Maybe the tune, the realization he once had in a city that was now gray with stone, the fusion of nature and the philosophy of the Balance with the technocratic, the philosophy behind the cities, maybe that held turth. Certainly, it was just one of many possible outcomes, and he was no seer. He could manipulate the threads however, even if many thought that such was foolish, dangerous, downright sinful because it required the usage of stealth, deceit, misguidance, lies – sometimes, it was more merciful than other options. It was one of those days that he missed having a possibility to meet Ozlo, or the T'oleflor or others. Well. Maybe later.

[Aphel]

He missed home, lazy afternoons, playing with the little rascal, watching Breanna lost in a book, Kyreth curled up asleep next to Midnight. So many precious memories.
It was cold, rain in his face, cold tendrils ending in dripping from his chin and jaw. He was many things, had many skins, but that was just how it was. Life was hard and unforgiving at times, but he felt a new confidence growing. Silently, he observed before returning to the camp and reporting. Many, many things to do. The Longstrider understood. Once this was over, it was time for a long, long break.
He had shared some of the information he had, but not all. There were things that he need to think about, whether or not it was wise to tell Gala of Duchess' current whereabouts. He didn't want to loose leverage, as well, and he has to move Breanna out of the line of fire first, should he plan to do that. She considered her a "friend" of sorts, something he couldn't quite understand.
Either way, he had doubts that it would all work out. He somehow didn't quite trust Vorlich, but he knew he could count on Ziggs, Tralek, Andrew and Gala. Argos and his daughter, who had quite some courage, he knew he could trust simply for the fact that they followed the Great Leader. Not with everything, but with most. If he could mesh some of the various efforts together, well, that would be terrific and some hard word work.

He couldn't reach the bridge alone, and the people here needed Charlie, Kat, Andrew, Jil and so on. He couldn't go alone, either, but maybe it was a question of necessity instead of ability.