Author's Note
-------------

After the Taint Wars, one Grutina Oakvine led a group of Hartstone Druids to
great Glomdoring, in a misguided attempt to restore the forest to its former
state. Though Hartstone and Serenwilde made every attempt to bury their names
and subsequent deeds along with their bodies, the spirits of these fallen
Druids have not so easily acquiesced to obscurity. This is only one telling of
their story, based on the facts I could glean. With the forbearance of the
Bardic Council, I will tell it in three parts: this is the first.

Chapter 1
---------

It seemed like those days in the Gloriana would never end, the two of them
lying in the sunshine on a cleared hilltop, watching waves of green and shade
and light rippling below them as the trees swayed to and fro in the summer
winds.

Then Etain would take her hand and pull her to her feet, and her knees would
almost buckle with languour. He would urge her along, in the throes of a
strange and delightful fever that soon overtook her too, until they were both
running through the mass of vine and flowering briar, between those noble tree
trunks, down the shadowed pathways of the forest twisting deeper into some holy
mystery.

Their barefoot pilgrimage brought them to every hidden nook and hollow in the
forest. They skipped across slippery rocks over the narrows of the Gloriana
River and walked through the rich silt of its banks, teeming with life and
fertility, following its course to a tiny waterfall, where the cool water
smashed against the basalt riverbed into a fine mist. They lounged against
fallen trunks overgrown with moss and crawling scarabs, whose iridescent shells
gleamed with an opal's sheen in the shafts of light piercing through the canopy.
Fronds of fern brushed against their muddy feet, briars twined around their arms
as they passed through, leaves adorned their hair - the Forest embracing its
children.

Among all the totems of Gloriana, bearing the imposing countenance of Raven the
Wise, one sang out beneath her palm when she touched it, and that was Etain's.
Whenever they came to it, he would swing up into the branches with the ease of
one who had lived all his life in the trees, reach down to seize her arm and
effortlessly lift her. Cradled in his nest together, they would listen to the
murmurs of the Forest, the whispers in the leaves, the silver chiming of water
far away, the trill of bluebirds, the measured beat of ravens' wings and their
resonant caw, which filled Duena with some inexplicable longing and pang of
loss.

Long black hair poured in streams of ink down Etain's face and shoulders, woven
through with beads of bone and raven feathers, one lock always obscuring his
right eye. Duena would brush the stray lock aside, and her hand would come to a
rest on his cheek as her gaze caught his and she would once again try to grasp
what she saw there: a veneer of mischievous joy, overlaid on something
everlasting and wise, and through it all, a flash in the night, a golden adder
slipping away, the unseizable mystery that eluded her wherever she turned in
that forest. Black haired, black-eyed, strewn with black feathers and painted
in shadows, with the wings of a bird and the same sudden curious movements,
Etain was a raven bound in Elfen form, but a raven through and through.

She was too young to have her antlers, and spent the warm summer nights in her
lover's nest, dreaming of wings. It seemed like those nights would never end.

But those nights did end. The summer drew to a close. Her parents finished
their field studies, working side by side with the Raven Circle, and prepared
to return home. She pleaded to stay, her heart fluttering violently in the cage
of her ribs as she contemplated leaving, but at last acceded to their wishes.
She would not act rashly. She would come back to Serenwilde one more time. She
would speak with the Hierophant, she would go to White Hart again, she would
consider carefully whether she was ready to leave the forest where she'd lived
all her life and the Spirit who had been meant to guide her. Even as she made
these promises, she thought to herself, "Just a few weeks, then I can come
back."

"You will be back," Etain said. His voice was even and he looked her calmly in
the eye, so certain, he would not suffer a moment's distress.

"You will be back." That had the sound of augury, not wishful thinking. Maybe
he had cast runes, or maybe Great Raven, Wise Raven, had imparted that, but he
knew.

"You will be back." There was not a doubt in her mind.

Young and feverish as she was, she did not pay heed to the whispers unsettling
the Wilde, talk of Imperial folly, of grim warnings issuing from the Night
Coven.

Then one day, the Taint cloud billowed up over Magnagora as the Basin watched,
petrified. Centaurs arrived in herds to take refuge in the north of Serenwilde,
near the mountains, and carried with them dire tales. The Elfen of Gloriana
could not be persuaded to flee. Even now, the Druids had melded themselves to
the forest and would defend it to the last. The Taint cloud raced their way,
sped by a malignant will and strange winds.

Corruption overtook the Gloriana. The skies above it dimmed into a perpetual
gloom, a shadow to the south, which resisted Father Sun's glory. The Serenwilde
withdrew as a turtle into its shell, the Hartstone spurring bush and briar to
overgrow the old paths, until the Commune proper was hidden in the forest
depths. And so Duena, helpless, watched the coming of winter.

Chapter 2
----------

As she swung down from the trees, her left antler snagged a vine, and the shake
of her head to free herself spoke volumes of her irritation.

Grutina had not meant for the whole matter to come to open disobedience of the
Moonhart Circle, and if it had not, that was only because the Moonhart Circle
had gone into the gathering with the same intent. So she had hemmed and hawed
when they'd told her they did not intend to send an expedition inside Gloriana,
and they had carefully avoided forbidding her to leave in so many words. The
gathering of elders could well think her a reckless fool, but they understood
that she was an influential one, and that her words resonated in the hearts of
many Druids.

And why wouldn't they? That Serenwilde had closed its paths to city dwellers
and let their pleas fall upon deaf ears was one thing. That the Wilde would not
help its only remaining sister in direst need was another all together.

It was the undue influence of the Moon Coven inside the Moonhart Circle, though
Grutina. The Wiccans were torn between grief and rage at the horrors the fae had
suffered at Rowena's hands, and this made them recoil from all thought of
reaching out to Gloriana. "Glomdoring," they called it, a word passed down by
the fae, from Rowena's own lips. "Glomdoring," and that simple word made it
easy to disavow any responsibility for the forest's fate. As the fae fled
Ethereal Glomdoring, so the Moondancers refused to enter the forest itself.

Not so the Druids, less blinded by Ethereal matters and aware of the fact that
beneath that noxious miasma of taint lay soil and bark and leaf that could be
coaxed to issue pure, green life again.

The tenders of the forest waited only for a chance to reach out to Gloriana,
learn about the strange poison that had warped its boughs and start drawing it
from the wound. Grutina felt that she knew their hearts in this as the
Hierophant himself did not.

Wooden slats rattled underneath her feet, and the hollow sound caught her
notice. She'd been nearly racing away from the gathering, each step a little
more punishing than the last as her thoughts sank down that too-familiar
spiral. Forming the sign of White Hart with one hand, tugging her cloak into
place with the other, she lightened her pace and collected herself into a more
becoming countenance. As she raised her eyes, she spotted Wellan at the end of
the walkway. She inclined her head politely, but did not stop, so he fell in
behind her, following her on long glides of his diaphanous wings.

"They said no," said the faeling, not quite a question.

"Only to sending a party themselves," Grutina answered.

Wellan clicked his tongue in a vexed sound.

"This changes nothing," said Grutina. "I would've liked to leave with their
blessing, but we'll manage just as well on our own. And once we return, once we
show it can be done, no one will quibble about how we left."

"Maybe we should be patient a little longer?"

She shook her head firmly.

"It's not a matter of patience. We've watched the seasons change, and all
they've done is send off a few scouts to prowl on the edges of the woods. Each
and every last one, they warned not to lose sight of the forest eaves."

She halted briefly and faced her companion.

"Do you know, the Moondancers will not set foot in Ethereal Gloriana? They go
as far as southern Faethorn, where the mists grow unhealthy and the trees,
twisted, and the fae have carved warning runes... and they'll go no further."

A look of anguish, as insubstantial as the shadow of a cloud on the grasses on
a bright summer's day, crossed Wellan's face. In a subdued voice, he spoke,
continuing Grutina's thought:

"And not a word since the forest fell. No letters answered by friends and loved
ones. Every call on the aether met with silence..."

He didn't let on how intimately he knew that silence, thought Grutina with a
pang of sympathy. His mother's tah'vrai had taken her to Ethereal Gloriana.

"Not a word," Grutina acknowledged. "We'll learn no more until we get our hands
dirty. We have to go inside. The Moonhart Circle isn't biding its time: Gloriana
is already dead, to their minds. They will not send anyone."

They had reached one of the great elms that led down from the Commune proper to
the forest floor. Grutina climbed down a set of spiral steps anchored in the
bark, while Wellan dropped from the high branches to alight gracefully near
her. The undergrowth closed behind them, hiding any signs of steps or path from
unwelcome foreigners.

In silence, they continued to the banks of Moon River, following the course of
the shimmering stream until it dipped into a secluded grove. Tall beeches with
a snowy bark, soft and white as a foal's spots, stood silent guard around the
small clearing, their trunks carved with signs like antlers, like a leaping
stag.

In this place of peace and contemplation, many Druids sat together, trading
fervent whispers as they cast runes. One, a tall Elfen in his thirties, walked
slow circles around them, trying not to pace too intrusively. The only person
truly at rest was the ancient Igasho sprawled against a protruding root, his
head propped on his arm, propped on his cudgel. He was also the slowest to
acknowledge their arrival: as the others jumped to their feet and neared to
receive the news, he raised his eyes lazily and watched.

"Well?" prompted Gherlan, the restless Elfen.

"We'll have to make our own preparations to depart. The Moonhart Circle is
not... enthusiastic, but they won't keep us."

Gherlan drew back, a little stricken.

"And the Hierophant?"

"The Hierophant stands with the rest of the council," said Grutina evenly.

Gherlan was not the only one who faltered. Most of those gathered were not yet
forty, still young and full of spirit, but more readily cowed by authority than
Grutina. Uncertainty creeped in their countenances.

"So no Moondancers will be coming?" asked one.

"Not this time," Grutina appeased him. "If all goes well, they'll be persuaded
to go on the next expedition, I'm sure."

"Then we'll have no one to perform the rite of Resurgem."

With a groan like a rotten tree branch breaking, Frerrur, the old Igasho
climbed to his feet. His bushy eyebrows furrowed together in deepest
concentration as he eked out his words:

"We have able bodies. Good hunters. No beasts get us. In good numbers."

His mountainous solidity and the simple determination in his voice were
reassuring, giving Grutina a foothold.

"This is not a venture without risk," she said in a stern tone. "You come
because you have all seen the beauty of Gloriana, you've counted those of the
Raven Circle as your friends, you want to heal the forest and save what is left
of its people after all these months squandered waiting. And you want to learn
about this foul Taint, how it twists life, how it can be purged from the Basin.
I ask nothing of you. I'm going, and I'm offering you the chance to come with
me. If these reasons aren't enough, no one will blame you for staying - quite
the opposite."

And conscience would do the rest, she knew. They could not, in good conscience,
abandon Gloriana. They would overcome their fears and follow her to study the
new threat to Nature and learn to eradicate it. They would remake the fallen
forest in the pure image of the joyous realm of summer they all remembered. She
inclined her head politely and retired, allowing them to reach these conclusions
amongst themselves.

Wellan shot her an inquisitive look, and Gherlan started to follow her, but at
a small sign of her hand, they stayed back. Rest, meditation, time without
voices, losing herself in the music of the forest until her own thoughts were
silent: she needed these things to quell her confusion and uncertainty. Out of
sight of the clearing, she thought she had gotten away, when a voice reached
her, and she ill suppressed a sigh of irritation.

"Please, Lady Oakvine, will you take me with you?"

She turned upon her heel to find a scrap of an Elfen girl, almost shaking with
nerves. Under Grutina's silent scrutiny, she choked out:

"I heard words... that you were taking a party to Gloriana. Please take me with
you."

"You're Marat's girl, aren't you? You were there with him last summer?"

The girl nodded.

"And what does he say about this? And your mother?"

"I'm seventeen now, I can choose for myself."

"So they don't approve," Grutina replied glibly. "You should listen to the
wisdom of your elders."

"I know I must listen, but this time, I made a promise. I bound myself to
return to... to someone there. As soon as could be."

She stood a head lower than Grutina, barefoot, her hair unbound and tangled
with bits of twigs and leaves - a jot pale, a jot unkempt, but for all her
distress possessed of the delicate and fleet beauty of the blushing rosebud. A
child, and still she was unlucky enough to have a lover lost in Gloriana,
thought Grutina with bitter humour.

"You're a sapling, a pebble, and we're heading into danger. We don't know what
we're heading into. You can be patient and await the news from here."

"I'll handle myself," the girl ground out, showing the first signs of backbone
yet. "I made a promise. What's the worth of my word and my trust and my love if
I do not keep my promise, while there's still a chance...?" Her words drifted
off into a startlingly mature tone of sorrow.

Grutina clenched her jaw as an upswell of tenderness shot through with anger
threatened to bring tears to her eyes.

"Very well, I'll think about it," she said, and with that blended into the
foliage and continued on her way, hidden and undisturbed.

As she fled sure-footed down the pathways of the forest, she toyed with the
thought: surely they could watch the girl. A company of Druids with many able
hunters made a fearsome party. They were not headed against an army, only a few
sorry, diseased beasts. All this was superstition, fear of the dark. The danger
was not so great. One child would be safe in their midst.

Chapter 3
----------

They set out in the spring. With packs and provisions, they met in the shade of
the Moonhart Mother Tree. Most of the Commune gathered to see them off, some
disapproving, some hopeful, all of them apprehensive. Those of the Moon Coven
joined hands and called down silvery moonlight upon the travellers, a blessing
for the road ahead.

Goodbyes were brief, tearful embraces few. Gherlan said a cursory farewell to
his husband, though the stroke of a lingering hand on a cheek spoke of
something more moving. Frerrur placidly shared a few last words with his mate
and children. Wellan flitted fretfully over his half-brother's children, a
gaggle of little Elfen who jostled for the chance to tug at his wings. Only
Marat clung to Duena like he would never see his daughter again, while Galera,
her mother, stood to a side morosely.

The High Priestess of the Moon had not come to watch, but the Hierophant stood
by Miakoda, tall and impassive as an alder, the image of disapproval in all the
vestments of his office: his cowled cloak bordered with runic stitching, his
ceremonial sickle, garlands of leaves adorning his antlers.

From the Moonhart, the company crossed the Alabaster Road to walk on through
Northern Serenwilde. In the early morning hours, barely after dawn, the air was
chill and mist rose from the earth, giving the waking life the countenance of a
dream. Out of the corners of their eyes, they could see pixies darting between
trees and out of sight. The solemn mood of the forest had set upon the tiny
fae: they did not break into peals of laughter, but watched the travellers with
eerie attention.

The ground sloped upward as they progressed, the tree cover thinning and giving
way to meadows clad in a riot of coloured spring flowers, and gradually, into
the wind-combed grasses of the northern foothills. They turned to look behind.
The forest lay splayed out below them now, a sea of emerald green, Nature pure,
eternal and unchanging, there to welcome its faithful when they returned. On the
horizon gleamed the expanse of the true sea, a stratum of deep blue between the
earth and sky. Beyond the reach of sight, past the visible edge of the world,
lay the end of their journey.

A low thrumming ended the moment of reflection. A rumble echoed among the
hills, a sound like rapid drumbeats, rising, then thundering, as a centaur
troop rode over the crest ahead of them. Flank to shining flank, they lined up
before the company. A vigorous male rode out in front of them, his glistening
umber pelt and muscled torso speaking of strength and a life spent galloping
under the open skies.

Grutina inclined before him respectfully.

"Hail, Nintoba, Chief of the Centaurs."

Nintoba gave her a long, measured look. He trotted back a few paces to let them
pass. At this sign, the troop of centaurs broke into two long files stretching
up the hill, as though standing guard on the edges of a path.

Grutina bowed politely and walked on between the silent watchers. Taking their
cue from her, the others hefted up their packs again and followed her, their
eyes drifting in bewilderment over those mighty creatures standing impassively
at attention, in their unsettling farewell.

Only when they reached the end of the row did the last centaur there break
ranks and approach Grutina, bending his foreleg to sketch a bow.

"Grutina Oakvine, I am Maklanu, once of Gloriana. I know that you are heading
there, and ask to join your party."

"You are welcome on the journey with us, Maklanu," said Grutina, "I have no
doubt you're a fit hunter. But you must bring water and provisions. We don't
know that there will be anything safe to eat once we enter tainted land, and we
do not carry enough to feed a centaur."

The centaur nodded and moved aside to let Grutina see the pile of packs and
waterskins beside him. Soon, these were loaded on his back and he cantered
alongside Grutina.

"Your troop's salute was... unexpected," Grutina offered.

"Nintoba thinks you many kinds of a fool," answered Maklanu. "But he said the
Elfen of Gloriana did not heed his words, and you would not heed his words, so
he would at least see you off."

"And you?"

"It's nearing on three seasons since we fled. The greater danger is past, I
want to see for myself what is left of our home. Nintoba has lit sweetgrasses
and divined in the smoke. He says we will remain in Serenwilde."

"And has he divined our lot?" asked Grutina politely. "My own runes left me
puzzled."

Maklanu let out a long, irritated sigh, almost a neigh, his hooves striking up
a clod of dirt. Grutina lay a companionable hand on his flank and let the
matter rest. They were starting to scale the cliffs to the north. He could make
short work of the escarpment, but she needed all her breath.

Wanting to avoid scrutiny, and all trappings of civilisation, they had opted
against the highways, choosing instead the longer trek through the mountains.
The first leg of the journey would take them through the Northern Mountains,
until they stood below Mount Seirode. They would head south down the Razines,
crossing the Estengare, and reach the Great Pass. That once-bustling highway to
Gaudiguch would be deserted now, and they could cross untroubled into the
Southern Mountain range. Past the gates of Southgard, overlooking the Grey
Moors, they would halt only at the Gloriana River to study its waters, see if
the contamination had climbed upstream. And then...

They would descend into darkness.

Chapter 4
----------

A biting Kiani wind sent yellow waves through the arnica blossoms on the
mountainside. Duena uttered a word of praise to Old Man Rock for his
steadiness, then skidded down the cliff face, sending a shower of gravel
skittering beneath her feet. A few pebbles struck Gherlan's arm and he looked
up from his small set of phials and alembics.

"I think the way down into the foothills is less than a half a day's walk. It's
so hard to tell, there's fog in the air all east of the river."

Gherlan chuckled mirthlessly.

"There's no fog that colour, sapling. That's Taint, that's the stuff we're
after."

The shaky look on her face made him go on:

"But don't you worry, your eyes are sharper than any of ours. If you say it's
not a long way in... maybe we can hold our breaths."

Duena pursed her lips, but within her narrowed eyes, a spark of humour flared
to life.

Grutina stepped up behind her and, putting a hand on her shoulder, called out
to the Elfen labouring on the banks of the river.

"Well? What do we say?"

"The water's clear, the fish are healthy," one of them replied, and the rest
nodded in agreement. "We've found no traces of poison."

"So the Taint hasn't spread upstream, and we know there's no trace of it in the
Inner Sea," Gherlan cut in. "That means the main course of the Gloriana is still
pure. Maybe Taint doesn't even spread easily in aquatic medium. We've got clean
waters to start purging the forest."

Grutina beamed heartily at him.

"There's good news for us already. For now, we can refill our water supply and
head out in short order. Let's make the most of the day, let's get to
Gloriana!"

There was a great bustle as the Druids got up and brushed the silt off their
knees. All manner of glassworks - phials, glass plates, finely crafted lenses -
and magical instruments were rinsed and put away in thick padding, to be
unpacked for further tests inside the forest proper. They tidied the camp,
dousing the firepit and tying up the bedrolls, hauled up their packs - and
stood staring at the corrosive cloud that awaited them on the other side of the
river.

Wrapping an arm around Duena's waist, Maklanu hoisted her off her feet and
helped her onto his back, then forded across. At his own plodding pace, Frerrur
went next, stopping mid-stream and offering his outstretched arm to Grutina. One
by one, the other companions ceased their hesitations and crossed.

Maybe the spray of water cascading from the mountain had refreshed the air, or
maybe the rock formations there formed some natural windshed, for they suddenly
breathed more heavily on the other side. Now they saw water, stone and sky
tinged by a thin reddish-ochre haze, which made their eyes water. A faint
chemical sting crawled inside their cheeks, up their noses, down their throats.
They moved quickly, no longer willing to idle inside the noxious fog, but the
feeling only settled over them more fully as they went deeper in, as did a
tense, uncomfortable silence. Soon, they were trudging along with leaden feet,
tugging at sticky clothes. The substance seemed to cling to their skin and
dissolve in drops of sweat, forming a corrosive mixture that chafed under shirt
cuffs and collars.

They had to watch their footing carefully, as the path had grown unstable and
crumbled into dust under the slightest pressure. In places, the sheer granite
edge looked moth-eaten, worn smooth then riddled with holes like a seashell
many weeks on the shore, a black and misshapen lace. A slip could land them on
one of the spikes of red, brown and black crystal newly rampant on the
mountain. The cruel excrescences were the only thing flourishing, and after a
while, Wellan broke the silence first to comment on that:

"Now, it's one thing that we don't see kafe or juniper, they're very near
hibernation now, but I'd expect arnica everywhere, and at least some moss and
lichen. We haven't seen any life since the river."

Frerrur lifted his rough-carved cudgel and gestured wordlessly to something
coming up on the path. Wellan flew ahead only to stop with a shudder. It was
the corpse of a rockeater, a pile of yellowed bones with only a little rotten
meat left under tatters of fur, the whole thing covered in a fuzz of mold.
There was no sign of the predator that killed it, but as they watched, the mold
writhed, spreading and retracting its grayish-green filaments almost like
tentacles infiltrating what was left of the carcass. No one ventured another
observation after that.

The overcast sky hid Father Sun from sight, and as his rays filtered through
the haze only as a diffuse red glow, it was hard to tell how late in the
afternoon they reached the slate steps leading down to the foothills. From
their vantage point as they hopped down from shingle to shingle, they saw the
dark expanse of Gloriana, spreading like a vast pool of ink before them, with
the jagged peaks of Avechna's Teeth as gloomy backdrop. To the west shone the
silver ribbon of the Gloriana River, and they could now see its offshoot into
the forest, a murky line fading among the trees.

The hills below were fenced in by cliffs on one side, slowly engulfed by the
encroaching forest on the other. The odd hemlock specked upon their bald heads
stood denuded and withered, its needles stripped away by the wind. Here and
there, a narrow gully sliced across the land, as though a rotten child had idly
taken a pen-knife to a tree's trunk. Those gullies had to have been green
pockets of forest at one time: they were still packed with the blackened trunks
of evergreens, sticking up like needles from a pincushion.

"Is... is it possible for tainted trees to move around, do you think?" Duena
breathed out, eyes fixed on the mass of the forest.

"Come," said Grutina. "This is no time to let yourself get worked up. Trees
send deep roots into the ground, how could they move?"

"But I saw them move..." Duena whispered to Wellan, who patted her with
kindly-meant condescension.

Dead grass crackled into ash underfoot, replacing the weighty silence that had
accompanied them for so long with a rhythmic murmur of destruction. The wind's
shriek coming off the mountains, the creak of a dead branch, the buzzing of
locusts consuming whatever was left in those wastes, filled the air, punctuated
by the raucous caw of a crow in the distance. The noxious haze, now dark,
anticipating the dusk, spread thickly in every direction, lingered on every
surface, swirling in black pools over boulders and tree bark.

A rustle in the grass startled them into a flurry of cudgels and sickles. A
three-legged lump jerked into sight, dragging one hind quarter along the
ground. By its matted gray wool, it had once been a sheep, now with eyes red
like carbuncles, one set higher than the other, as though its face had melted
and resolidified. Maklanu drew his bow, and one sharp twang later, the pathetic
creature lay pinned to the ground with an arrow crushing the throat. It jerked a
long time before it finally grew still. Then the locusts rose in a cloud from
the withered grass and poured over the corpse.

"Can we make for the cover of trees before nightfall?" someone asked in a small
voice.

"Yes," said Grutina, her own voice unsteady. "We'll make camp beneath the
forest eaves. We can come back here in the morning for field studies before
going deeper in."

They quickened their steps, circling through a knot of rowans, weaving through
clusters of dead pines, to avoid more of the tainted fauna, great beasts with
the heads of roosters and bat-like wings that shrieked at them, until they were
only spots left behind in the growing darkness. Night fell upon them as the
canopy closed in above.

"It's a Waning Moon," Wellan said, but they could not even see that sliver of
Mother Moon. There was only darkness overhead.

Frerrur threw his head back and howled ferociously, calling on the spirit of
Brother Wolf. He scented the air.

"Smell only us," he muttered gruffly.

"Never mind, who knows if we can trust scents here," said Gherlan.

The perfect darkness quickened around them, a creature with a devious mind of
its own. Where a minute before in low light, they had seen the shapes of
trunks, branches, vines, formless shadows now writhed, black on black,
spreading tendrils towards them, twining over their limbs, dragging thickly
against each action. They moved aimlessly, like flies trapped in honey, choking
in the viscous and oppressive fluid.

One Elfen pointed her sickle at her nearest companion and called forth
faeriefire. The colourful light flared up around him, creating a small theatre
for the grotesque forms now cast in sharp relief. As the fire flickered, the
shadows retreated and sprang back towards them in a jerking dance. In the
pocket of light, they saw each others' faces, drawn and cadaverous. Behind
them, like an intricate, moving mosaic, streams of spiders flowed down the
twisted trees. The flames were smothered all too quickly.

"Let's not do that please," someone whispered.

More whispers followed:

"Who's been here before? Do you know where we are?"

"I don't recognise a thing. This looks like nothing I remember."

"Can we reach the Commune proper? Is it far?"

"Maybe we should've spent the night outside..."

"Noble Hart, give us courage."

"I'd rather take my chances on the hills."

"Where are we going? I can't see you."

"If anyone gets separated, flow back to me. Don't wander off."

"Is that you, Eveir?"

"There's something moving! I felt something move past my leg!"

Then someone cried out and jerked back, stumbling into those next to him.

"I touched something, an animal."

"Calm down, what was it?" chorused the voices.

"I-I don't know. It was furry an-and hard..."

Grutina stepped on some hard tube that rolled under her heel and cracked. She
crouched down and felt along the ground.

"They're only bones," she whispered in Frerrur's ear.

"Enough!" she prononounced decisively. "Keep your wits. I'll cast faeriefire
again. We have to see where we're going."

She pointed her sickle at Wellan, who hovered above the ground. The flare of
light swept out from him just in time for all of them to see a white,
pearlescent jet shoot down at Gherlan from the canopy. He gaped in silent shock
as he was jerked up into the branches like a puppet on a string.

Duena gave a strangled cry and, showing no instinct of self-preservation,
clambered into the trees after him. By the time Grutina caught up with her, the
girl was bent over Gherlan's body, slicing open the white threads that bound him
with her sickle, not sparing a glance for the great spider that was readying its
spinneret for another stream.

Grutina pointed her cudgel at the beast, willing the knotty burl on its end to
explode into a barrage of splinters. The spider scuttled back, three of its
bulbous eyes pierced and leaking white ooze like pus. It reared up, raising its
two front legs, and descended again over its prey, sinking hooked fangs into
Gherlan's body, which went taut and shuddered. More Druids had climbed up and
pointed their cudgels at the enormous black body. The spider collapsed first
onto its front legs, rolled onto its back, legs curled and twitching, then went
still.

They all stood there, bewildered and panting as the feverish urgency left their
blood. Gherlan was free of the web and sat up on one arm now, favouring his
bitten side. His face had a greenish cast, but it was hard to tell in the
dimming faeriefire piercing up through the branches whether that was due to
shock, or poison setting in. Duena clung to him, shaking.

"It's over," announced Grutina firmly, motioning them all down.

Once on the ground, her command over them dissipated.

"Let's get out of these webs," someone hissed, and in a flurry of agreement,
they started filing at quick pace through the forest, no one in the lead, with
no heading, only hurrying away from the place of spiders as quickly as they
could move through the vines and brambles that clutched at their clothes. They
floated blindly through the fathomless night.

"Stop," she tried again after a while. "Stop already! We've got to set up camp
somewhere, this looks like as good a spot as any."

Like a spooked filly acquiescing to the reins at last, they obeyed, setting
down what packs they still had with them after the panicked rush, unfolding
blankets and bedrolls. They tried to start a campfire, but the wood they could
find feeling around in the dark was too humid to do more than hiss with smoke.
Huddling together as birds do in the winter, they formed one mass of warm
bodies and let the exhaustion of the day pull them into sleep.

Grutina closed her eyes upon darkness and the darkness gave chase into her
dreams, spiralling unearthly around her until it coalesced into the pulse of a
dark heart, lying just beneath the crust of soil, the tarred bark of the trees,
driving black torrents that gushed and screamed as they broke loose, with howls
that echoed madly in the night. Bound in shadows, she struggled to writhe free
as a voice, her own voice, uttered nonsensical things in rhythm with the
terrible beat, words strung together with the semblance of meaning. She made
out fragments that she couldn't understand:

"We are accustomed to look upon the shackled form of a conquered beast - but
here lies the thing monstrous and free."

Then piercing caws, ringing sepulchral, and the fast stroke of wings, cold
kisses from feathers on her forehead, her skin...

An insistent tug woke her at dawn. She opened her eyes sluggishly and saw, in
the gray morning, a crow perched high above, watching her with a fixed stare of
its ebon eyes.

Wellan at last caught her attention and directed her to turn around.

"Look," he said.

Behind them rose the Black Tower.