Scene: Dunedrift Refugee Camp
Narration:
The morning light spilled across the horizon as a thin tendril of sunlight slit between the last lazy strands of sand hanging in the pre-dawn. Dunedrift’s refugee camp had gained a new, subtle sort of horror in the light. Wagons lined the outer perimeter of the camp in orderly lines with their wheels half buried in the sand.
Fragile, frightened elven refugees, wrapped in blankets with their meager belongings clutched in trembling fingers, huddled inside and around the wagons.
Some of the elves sat with their gazes fixed unblinkingly on the ground at the smoldering husks that were once their homes.
Two figures in bright scarlet cloaks seemed to speak gently, reassuringly. Both helped others clamber into place and settle into seats, tucking the warm blankets about them and settling the baggage more comfortably among their feet.
In the center of it all stood Saedor. He swept back and forth in his movements, like a proud father escorting his people to safety. He had a wineskin in one hand that he handed to one weary figure after another, and an entire wheel of smooth, rich cheese swaddled in cloth which he held in his other hand.
His voice carried easily across the entire camp, rich and sweet, the easy assurance of one calming sufferers at the close of their hardship.
Saedor:
“Soon now,” he promised them, his tone as calm and soothing as if he were coaxing children from a frightening dream. “Very soon now you will not be here. Not anymore.
Your days here have been many, but very soon you will rest.
And you will awaken in a much, much better place.”
Fern:
Fern approaches the wagons as the morning sun begins to shine on his head.
He squints taking in the sights of the refugees and seeing the taimavar he freezes in place for a moment before steeling his resolve and moving towards them.
Perhaps he was wrong he thinks as he watches them be kind with these refugees.
He clears his throat of the dry air and calls out.
“Hello, I was sent to assist with these refugees”
Saedor:
Saedor turns with a smile, as though he had expected Fern all along.
“How generous.”
Fern:
Fern meets his gaze with a smile.
“I try my best to be generous to those in hard times”
“I trust you are well lord Saedor”
Saedor:
Saedor’s gaze flicks over to the shanty town denizens trailing Fern, his eyes seeking the triangular points of ears hidden in shrouds and under head-coverings. Finding none among the remaining survivors, his smile does not change.
“Lord Fern, how relieving. You have survived yet another selfless act of heroism.”
“Several tents have been made available, see that these people are housed and given water.”
He gestures toward the wagons.
“We will take the elves elsewhere.”
Fern:
“Gnolls razed the small village to the south. As luck would have it some were able to be saved”
“I would like to accompany you if you would have me but first I would like to get these survivors housed and informed of the ration locations as you said”
Saedor:
“Ah. Gnolls. What a pity when rabid animals are permitted to wander among civilized people. They bring nothing but death… a pain our world knows all too well, I’m afraid.”
He snaps his fingers and a familiar Hobgoblin appears at his side.
“Guardsman Pierce, would you kindly escort these poor souls to the newly vacant tents? Fern and I must be off.”
He motions to his wagon, a closed-top carriage made of dark wood pulled by white horses, with an emerald green interior.
“Come, my lord. The journey will afford us time to speak in a more private setting.”
Scene: The Road to Betterment
Fern:
Fern obliges him and climbs onto the cart. Sweat beginning to bead on his head he is unsure if it’s the heat of the desert or perhaps fear beginning to creep out from where he stowed it.
He quickly thinks back to his group perhaps it was a mistake to go alone but to risk their safety after the stunt he pulled would be madness to him.
“I look forward to our conversations as I’m sure you can tell I have much to learn”
His voice doesn’t shake when he speaks though his minds is flooded with doubts.
Saedor:
Saedor steps in after him and closes the carriage door.
The carriage lurches forward, the refugee wagons following behind in a solemn line, red cloaks walking beside them like honor guards.
“Then let us be grateful for the road,” Saedor says, “It is rare that history gives a young lord time to correct his education before requiring him to choose a side.”
Fern:
Fern settles in his seat across from Saedor this time though unlike his previous meeting he does not sink into his seat but sits firm.
“It is rare indeed, and I have much to learn about the world and our people”
“After all the Valewood and its people are very closed off to the happenings outside its borders”
Saedor:
Saedor opens his nearly depleted wineskin, and pours the remainder of its contents into a small metal chalice, and hands it to Fern.
“You have enjoyed a rare luxury, my lord, isolation is a blessing. A culture fed by ancient roots, sheltered by old magic, raised with traditions started by Father himself… But you have stepped beyond the trees now. That is no small thing. The question is whether you intend to remain lost, or finally learn where you belong.”
Fern:
Fern accepts the chalice, he gives it a small sniff before allowing the liquid to pass his lips though he takes no more than a sip.
“It was a luxury to say the least, such a peaceful life away from the dangers that lurk in the dunes of these lands.”
Fern sets the chalice down leaving one hand on it to keep it from spilling.
“But I was sent out by the council with a purpose. To learn as much as I could about the happenings of these lands and their people and report back on my experiences.”
“So I insist. Enlighten me”
He speaks with no malice in his tone but instead curiosity has taken hold.
Saedor:
He speaks to Fern as if he is a child on his first day of school.
“You must wonder why your people defend their borders so fiercely, yes?”
“Eldamar and the Vaelwood both suffer from the same disease, I am afraid. Our species is dying, and regretfully there is no secret that you can learn that will give the Undying Council the cure they seek.”
“Eldamar has already begun to rot at its core. Were you aware that we are out of new souls? Years pass between births now. Years, my lord, and only after one of our siblings enters the Fading.”
“Your forests are not sanctuary, Lord Fern. They are a sealed pantry in a starving house surrounded by rats who intend to raid it.”
Scene: The Curse of Immortality
Fern:
Fern listens intently much like the child Saedor takes him for and that he really is in the lifespan of an elf.
He brings his other hand to his chin as he ponders this information and after a moment he speaks.
“I was not aware of dire situation our people seem to have found themselves in. Things in the Valewood always appear calm and relaxed but I would imagine that’s just the council trying to maintain order”
He thinks for another moment trying to recall the last birth in the wood but has trouble even remembering the last one. He begins to wonder if he was the last birth as newborns are celebrated in the wood and word spreads quickly in the tight knit community.
“So what is this disease? How do elves run out of souls when reincarnation is our way of life?”
A million questions enter his mind at once trying to escape through his lips but he quiets them.
Saedor:
Saedor’s expression softens, as though pleased Fern has asked the correct question.
“Because reincarnation is not creation, my lord. It is circulation.”
“A soul passes, returns, remembers fragments, and grows in refinement across its lives. That is our inheritance.”
His eyes drift briefly toward the covered wagons behind them.
“But a river that only recycles the same water eventually runs low when too many streams are polluted.”
He looks back to Fern.
“Souls are leaving the cycle. Born beyond our borders. Diluted in mortal bloodlines. Bound into Moonblades. Lost to undeath. Claimed by foreign gods. Trapped in places where Father cannot call them home.”
His voice remains calm, almost academic.
“Your Council calls it fate because fate is less frightening than arithmetic. Eldamar calls it what it is.”
“Genocide.”
“Not metaphor. Genocide. Conducted slowly and with endless insistence that love should excuse extinction.”
His eyes do not leave Fern’s.
“Every so-called “half-elf” born into this world is the murder of an elven soul. A child of OUR Father severed from its inheritance. Condemned to a short life, a mortal death, and then nothing. No return. No memory. No place in the river.”
His voice lowers.
“That is what I mean when I say you must choose a side.”
“You may stand with those who will one day find your treetop paradise and breed your people out of existence. They have tried before. They will try again. They will never stop.”
He leans back slightly, composed again.
“Or you may stand with your brothers in the Taimavar. Help us cleanse the river before it runs dry. Help us restore the elven species to abundance, dignity, and dominion, as Gods Among Men, as Father intended.”
“We prosper, Lord Fern, or we die.”
Scene: The Locked Door
Fern:
Ferns head continues to reel as his thoughts mesh together like an ocean during the roughest of storms and he had been thrown overboard into it all.
His eyes shift from Saedor to the carts behind them then back to Saedor.
Out of the millions of questions in his mind a million more have joined. He looks to his chalice and takes a longer drink then continues to stare out the window in an attempt to meditate and quiet them.
He says nothing.
Saedor:
For once, Saedor does not smile.
“Good,” Saedor says softly.
“Silence is the sound a mind makes when it has discovered a locked door inside itself.”
He looks back toward the wagons, one containing women and children splits off and begins traveling down a separate road, out of eyesight.
“We will not force it open today.”
Fern:
Fern notices the cart separate from the rest of the caravan he feels his chest tighten.
Fern intended to try to ride the rest of the way in silence but the question escapes before he can reel it in.
“Why are they splitting off from the caravan?”
He says softly.
He feels like he knows the answer already and a feeling of helplessness takes hold.
Saedor:
“Careful, my lord.”
His voice remains soft.
“Do not throw yourself against the locked door simply because you have discovered it.”
He turns his gaze lazily toward the road where the wagon vanished.
“They are being taken to the better place we promised. That is all.”
Fern:
Fern continues to look out the window his voice still quiet.
“Understood…”
Saedor:
“Now then, shall we move onto more pressing matters?”
He says as if nothing extraordinary has just occured.
Fern:
“Of course”
Fern thinks to himself what could be more pressing than the so called genocide of his species to lord Saedor.
Scene: The Prophet
Saedor:
“A little pseudodragon tells me that you’ve grown quite close with Aywin Qinfina, or as I’m sure you call him… The Prophet, yes?”
Fern:
“I don’t know if close is the right word to describe our relationship. I have spoken to him a few times though. Why do you ask?”
Saedor:
“Let’s not be coy, my Lord. We are brothers after all.”
“Your little rebellion has been careful. Admirably so. The Lords’ Alliance suspects something foul occurred at Crackjaw, of course. But suspicion is such a blunt instrument, particularly when wielded by humans.”
A faint smile returns.
“I’ve always had a knack for recognizing choreography.”
He folds his hands neatly in his lap.
“And so I thought it best we stop pretending we are strangers.”
Fern:
Fern returns his gaze to Saedor but he says nothing expecting Saedor to continue.
Saedor:
“After all, have you forgotten that it was Eldamari ‘leaked’ intelligence that delivered you to Crackjaw at precisely the hour your beloved Prophet was scheduled to die?”
He locks eyes with you.
“Or did you imagine it coincidence that one of my operatives was waiting to spirit Lieutenant Addison away before she could depose Baroness Sev in Azmar?”
“I am inviting you to stop pretending.”
Fern:
Fern meets his gaze and does not waver.
“I figured the taimavar have eyes and ears everywhere but what is your business with him?”
Saedor:
Saedor’s smile thins.
“Divination is such a blessing, is it not?”
He watches Fern carefully now.
“The Prophet could be a great boon to our cause. As I could be to yours.”
“Bring him to me.”
His voice remains perfectly calm.
“Within a week, the Emperor will be dead. And the Lords will discover, by some miracle of law and necessity, that your Dragonborn friend is the only soul capable of bringing Rosenhall and Vlorfa together.”
Saedor settles back.
“Your rebellion wins, Lord Fern.”
A faint smile returns.
“All I ask for is one wizard, in lieu of Rosenhall’s sons dying in bloody conflict trying to fight you and your friends.”
Fern:
Fern expressions tighten as he tries to steel himself against Saedors gaze. Any slip could show weakness here.
“Why not get him yourself if you had the intel? Trying to maintain plausible deniability?”
Saedor:
“We did.”
“Alyviel was among your little band, was she not?”
His smile thins.
“Unfortunately, she lost her nerve, blew her cover, and forced us to abandon a perfectly elegant route.”
“I suppose our loss is your gain in this instance.”
Fern:
“I see”
Fern thinks to himself for another moment.
“You must forgive me for not making any hasty decisions right away. I have learned quite a bit today and will need time to think on the information I have been given”
Scene: The Repatriation
Narration:
The carriage gives a sudden jolt and rolls to a stop in the open desert.
For a moment, there is only the groan of wood, the soft snort of the horses, and the wind dragging sand across the road.
Then Fern feels it.
A heaviness spreading through his limbs. His fingers loosen around the glass. The last of the wine spills dark across the carriage upholstery as his body slumps against the seat.
Behind him, from the refugee wagons, comes the dull sound of bodies collapsing one after another.
Only then does Fern remember the wineskins being passed from hand to hand.
Saedor remains seated across from him, untouched, calm.
Saedor:
“Then we shall give you time to think.”
Narration:
Fern’s vision tilts, half-buried against the carriage upholstery, the window just beyond his reach.
Saedor rises calmly and looks outside.
Fern cannot see the wagons anymore.
He can only hear them.
The soft thud of bodies falling against wood.
The scrape of boots in sand.
The clean draw of steel.
Then the quiet, methodical work of blades where screams should have been.
Saedor does not look back.
He reaches into his cloak and withdraws a sending stone, holding it delicately between two fingers.
Saedor:
“Notify the breeding houses,” Saedor says into the stone. “Our brothers are on their way home.”
Fern:
Panic immediately spreads throughout his body as the paralysis takes hold.
He had a feeling that wineskin was not what it seemed and he is now paying for his trust.
He looks towards saedor as his hand begins to burn the wood of the chair he is gripping.
He takes one labored breath in and closes his eyes before releasing it then succumbs to the paralysis.
He begins to meditate he will either die here and now or with some luck he will awaken when the paralysis has run its course but that is out of his control now.
He thinks of the party before passing out feeling as though even with him in this situation their lives will be safe for now and that’s what matters.
Scene: The Message
Narration:
When Fern awakes, the wagons are gone.
No refugees. No red cloaks. No horses.
Only silence amid the sand.
A few yards ahead, the desert earth has been freshly turned.
A mass grave.
There is no note. No need, Saedor has already said everything he meant to say.
The grave is the message.
“The next place we leave you may not be above the sand”