Unti Family/Nerta/A2S2

A week later
Roleplay from Wren the Watcher Message sent to Climbing the mountains of Jedinchel It may be spring in the lowlands, but on the Roof of the World, winter lingers. Wren uses her mottled brown cloak as a shield, but friend Nerta lets her cloak dance in the welcome breeze. Brave. But she is. They had spoken after the others left. Spoken of the secret things. Of their Totems. Spiders and Birds. Of hiding. Of running. Of danger. Of loneliness. But now we go home. To friend Nerta’s home and she is excited, but… the blinking eyes see her fidget. Hands patting at her belt, checking she has everything. Eyes scanning the peaks. She is excited, but on edge. “You worry.” Nerta jumps at Wren's trill. “Why?” Those glittering eyes narrow and she casts a glance to her unseen shadow. “Because this journey is not my choice, but his." Wren picks at her sleeve. "Old Aldo?" "Yes." Venom drips with her words. "The Old Man allows me to return because it serves his interests. If I linger too long, he'll become a pest again. After all, he doesn't have to sleep, I do. If he lets me." Oh. Oh… The round eyes turn to where Nerta glares. Wren knew her friend was angry at the ghost-king but this explains why. She thought Nerta was just brave, off on adventure, with help-aid from a ghost. But no, she's haunted. "I'm sorry Nerta friend. I don't like the Old Man now. But! Home soon. Happy time, yes?" Nerta sighs and sags. "Yes. At least his fool quest brings me home. Though the Huntmaster will be waiting.” Curious. Huntmaster. Huntmaster. Huntmaster. Wren cycles through the variations of inflection and tone, noting how her companion fidgets with the last. ‘Master’ bothers her. She does not like it. “Huntmaster not happy you go, or you back?” Glancing away, Nerta, spear raps on the path with a ring. “He’s never happy, be I coming or going.” Wren hums to herself, strutting up to the short rope bridge across a small gorge, pondering. Never happy. Master. Curious. Curious. Quite clearly trying to change the subject, Nerta clears her throat. “What about you, Wren? Happy to visit another tribe, or nervous about the mountain folks?” Big round eyes blink and then again before the tittering laugh calls. “Nervous? No. Friend Nerta, friend tribe.” "I hope so, because we've arrived." Raising her voice Nerta calls, "Whoever's on duty in the watchtower get down here. Wren the Watcher (Foederati)
Roleplay from Nerta the Weaver Message sent to Climbing the mountains of Jedinchel Flighty Wren may jump at the sudden shout, but the sunkissed young man who pokes his head up from behind some camouflage, seems more bemused than anything. “Funny Nerta. Real funny. What, uh, are you doing back?" Spreading all of her hands, save the one holding the spear, Nerta sighs. “I’m going to have to answer that question about a dozen times the moment we’re back in the village, so why don’t you just wait until then Caden?” He shrugs and nods. “That’s fair. What about her?” A bow, with an arrow knocked, wavers toward Wren, who pulls back on reflex. “She's a friend.” A finger jabs toward Caden, “A sister from the southern forest. Bird-totem. So stop being all billygoat gruff and get down here to greet us properly.” The young man breaks into a grin and starts to climb from his perch. “Properly, or properly? Because we got interrupted last time...” Nerta rolls her eyes as Caden clops down off the small lookout tower with his usual sure footing. “You can say that again, but we have a guest, and I don't have time to trounce you today.” Hooves kick up a bit of gravel as he lands from a jump. “Oh? Maybe I should shoot her then? Free up your evening to appreciate my company.” “Appreciate how bad your aim is maybe.” Bantering as she approaches the goat-totem Caden, Nerta wraps an arm or two around his, and drags him further up the hill. “Come on.” Nerta the Weaver (Foederati)
Roleplay from Wren the Watcher Message sent to Nerta's tribe in Jedinchel Wren preens at her belly under the cloak. She’d expected introductions and questions, but the growing crowd had eyes only for Nerta. In fact even Caden got shoved aside by the more aggressive arrivals, but Wren keeps her distance. “Nerta, you look tired!” The literally whisker-sporting greybeard scowls. “Is all that time in the lowlands making you soft?” “That’s a new spear. What happened to your old one? I made that for you special.” A woman with a cold button-nose barks. “Ungrateful girl, you had best have lost it in battle.” “Forget the spear, she’s back.” Hisses a serpentine man. “We’ve got to get you to fix a bunch of clothes. I mean don’t get me wrong, Gavin tries but he can’t weave silk.” Talons scratch at the dust. “You’re all being ridiculous, she needs a hot meal and to visit with her Móraí.” Wren picks apart the layers of voices as she scans the village Nerta calls home. A babbling spring, partially diverted for water, flows south around the village. Dotting the terraces are some wooden structures, but most homes are carved straight in the mountain side. From the west comes the ringing forge hammers and the acrid smell of a tanner. But most curious is the hulking figure seated at a table across the square. He has a great black beard, and shoulders nearly as broad as Wren is tall. He wears dark leather and pats the great axe laying against one knee. His other hand carefully pinches a ram’s horn between thumb and finger as though it were delicate porcelain. Taking a drink he lets the cup hang and frowns. Not happy. Hairy. Big… “Enough. Come ‘ere, gurl.” … Roars. Bear-totem. The others don’t seem worried. Many roll their eyes. A few cross their arms. Caden especially steps in the way. But Nerta takes a deep breath and waves the small crowd aside before stepping into the shadow of the seated man. “Huntmaster Cormac, I’m glad to see you’re well.” He stares for a time. It makes Wren fidget with her cloak. Finally he speaks, his voice like the rumble of a cart. “D’et all ye ‘ave te say for yerself, lass?” ‘No. But the last time I said anything for myself, you threw me out.” “Humph.” The bear doesn't take the bait. “Ye threw yerself out.” “Well.” Nerta clenches her hands. “I’m still haunted by the Old Man. Turns out temples are gone, along with a lot of other things. It’s chaos down there and no one knows how to get rid of him.” His frown and shrug end with a meaty slap on his thigh. “Too bahd. Ye gettin’ fight practice?” Nerta exhales slowly. “Yes.” This earns a frown and a nod. “Good.” The silent staring contest is only possible because Cormac is sitting down, but that doesn’t seem to bother Nerta. It worries Wren. She could feel it. Feel how the man put her friend on edge. How she seems transfixed between 'fight' and 'flight'. Normally Nerta was all 'fight' so this… this is new. “Go.” The big hand waves. “See yer weaving seanmháthair. We’ll talk lahter at de rin’.” Nerta’s eyes narrow and Wren’s blink-widen. Her seanmháthair, ‘old mother’? Not happy. Master. Bear. Scared. Father? Wren the Watcher (Foederati)
Roleplay from Nerta the Weaver Message sent to Visiting Nerta's Grandmother Nerta doesn’t return to the crowd but instead marches off toward the hills only to stop once the pair get out of sight. Leaning against the wall she shivers in a way that has nothing to do with the crisp air and she avoids meeting Wren’s gaze. “So… That’s Huntmaster Cormac.” “Yes.” Wren hops closer, a hand resting in one of Nerta’s. “Scary man.” “Yeah.” Shallowing hard, Nerta scrubs at her chin and makes a show of smiling. “Come on. I want you to meet Maimeó Maeve.” The pair wind their way through the village, earning happy calls and cheers from very nearly everyone. Eventually they make their way up steep steps to a dark cavern of a home, though it has a beautiful garden out front. Inside smells of dye thanks to the big vat bubbling atop a fire. The rugs and clothes hanging all about seem to make a web, trapping the heat so that Wren almost itches to shed her cloak. “Emperor’s-Fortune.” The pair of eyes glitter in the gloom in a familiar way. “Gariníon is that you?” The raspy voice sounds old and the figure slowly approaches hobbling on a cane. “Oh Nerta, so good of you to visit. And you brought a fly into my parlour?” Backlit by the fire the silhouette of the old woman seems strange. Something about her face… “Welcome my dear, please do not be alarmed. Spider-totem you know, and not all of us get the extra arms of this little scamp.” “Maimeó, stop trying to scare her!” Nerta laughs and embraces her elder with a tight hug. “I will play however I want, as well you know.” The declaration earns Nerta a smack. “Though I must say, I always thought you were sweet on that Caden lad, but this one seems nice.” Something clicks in the dark. “Juicy.” Nerta’s nose wrinkles as she rolls her eyes. “Caden’s handsome, yes, but he is a bit thick. He almost seemed ready to charge when…” Nerta trails off and sniffs. “Well, nevermind that. This is Wren, a sister from the south. Forest tribe.” “Oh the Great Forest? I’ve not been there in ages. Tell me little one, how’s Vixen? She always got me in so much trouble. Blamed for every prank she pulled!” She sighs, a hand waving about. “Oh but where are my manners, do come in, do come in. I’ll put on some fermented ichor and we can talk all about your little adventure.” Nerta the Weaver (Foederati)
Roleplay from Nerta the Weaver Message sent to Visiting Nerta's Grandmother Wren perches atop a small chair with a warm cup of fermented monster blood. Maimeó Maeve had donned a silken head wrap along with the drinks. It left only her eyes to glitter in the firelight as Nerta regaled her with everything that had happened. Such a tale. “My my.” The elderly spider sips at her drink. “An actual quest to save the world. What a fool’s errand, and I know the fool.” The chill wind rustles a few hanging clothes leaving Maeve to raise her chin imperiously. “Yes, I know you can hear me, Aldo. You’d best start taking better care of my Gariníon. None of this, ‘almost cut up by Factorium lunatics’ and ‘running around half naked in the snow’. Honestly just because you did it doesn’t mean everyone has to.” Wren blink blinks. Half naked old Aldo? Before she can ask the old woman cackles. “Oh I know, he puts on such a show of pompous charm. But he’s still a lowlander. When he came up here on his fool’s quest for the home of the Gods he got lost. Hypothermia set in and he thought he was cooking in his shirt, and put on a bit of a show. He was in fine form in those days…” Nerta stares at her Maimeó for a few heartbeats, chin in one hand, cup in another, while a third gropes for a pillow to throw at her teasing elder. “Uh huh. Let me guess, he’s my estranged grandfather because you two hit it off after you saved him.” Wren jerks back around. Old Aldo and Nerta, related? But the old woman just laughs accompanied by that odd clicking sound. “Oh no, no no. You’ve spent too much time listening to bards, Gariníon. A puffed up patrician like him, with me? Oh please. First of all it takes a brave man to kiss a spider-totem, especially one with my permanent Graft. Second, he was an unwavering gentleman,” she pauses and preens, “even when I offered.” The round eyes of Wren dart between the two. They are, serious. In a way. Yet not? This is a game. A game to see who will blink first… “Oh yes I can see it now, you in your best silks, him turning you down and then,” the pillow finally gets tossed, “my dear Maimeó going off to sulk.” Maeve scowls and catches the fluffy cushion. She seems to alternate between frail old woman and blink-and-you’ll-miss-it speed. “Oh, your Móraí told you that one did he?” “No, I just know you sulk when you lose.” Nerta grins. “We’ve played enough games of Tigers & Goats for me to know that.” The old woman gives off a radiant warmth then, somehow conveying the smile even though only her glittering dark eyes are visible. “Oh Gariníon, I’ve missed you.” The smile falters. “I’m sorry you’re in this mess. Fighting. Saving the world. If I’d known you’d end up like this when that patrician stumbled into my web I’d have killed him.” The chill breeze blusters again leaving Maeve to scowl. “He’s not used to being ignored is he? I imagine he’s talking your ear off. Sorry dear.” She raises her voice. “I’ll leave you alone then, Old Ghost, just know you got lucky you walked out of here.” Nerta snorts into her cup and collects her thoughts with a long pull of the thick drink. “He lets me sleep now. After all, I’m cooperating.” “Bah!” The woman throws her empty cup at one of the tapestries, probably at random. “Hostage to a haunting spectre doesn’t make it right, Gariníon. You should be free to do as you wish, not a pawn of a mad ghost, or your bear of a father. ‘Ne dahughter a mine ihs gonna be ah weaver.’ As if tending the hearth were beneath you or something. What your mother saw in him…” Trailing off the old woman pushes the line of thought aside. “Nevermind that. Point is, it's not right, I don't like it and I'd do anything for you, Gariníon.” “I know.” Nerta sighs and leans back on her free hands, the cup dangling from her grip. “But life isn’t fair. We just have to make due.” “Harumph. Don’t let your father hear you being so agreeable, he’ll have you in a hunting party in the blink of an eye.” “Actually,” Nerta purses her lips, “I’ve been doing a lot of hunting down in the lowlands. No end of monsters, the Old Man’s Republic is long dead and the ‘barbarian’ kingdoms can barely muster a force.” There’s a brief window of silence as Maeve somehow conveys a scowl through her veil. It let Wren step in at last. “Friend Nerta, you did not fight?” The woman shrugs, always an impressive gesture for her. “Uh. Sort of. I learned the basics but; it was expected I’d become the next huntmaster. It’s my ‘duty’ to the tribe, and all that. But I want to weave, like Móraí.” “Humph you’ve got the totem for it. My clothes were even worn by the old ghost himself. Why, I still remember when he ordered a blue shimmer-silk dress for this lady judge or something. Whatever.” The cane raps on the edge of her chair. “Gariníon, you find helping people satisfying?” “Yeah.” Nerta’s smile is wry, her many hands tugging at her clothes. “Sometimes it’s even worth the trouble.” “That’s both true and sounds like you. Just try not to let the old ghost twist you into a heroine. Such work never ends and I’ve already seen a daughter join the Dark Mistress too soon.” Maeve sips her ichor and turns her attention to Wren. It’s a bit unnerving how the eyes stare. “I’m sorry my dear, here we are talking circles around you. Why don’t we talk about you now. I’d love to learn more about all the companions on this quest.” Nerta the Weaver (Foederati)
Roleplay from Wren the Watcher Message sent to Crisis at the Privy Wren’s heartbeat hammers behind her eyes. She'd opened them once already. It hurt. Moving hurt. Thinking hurt. Everything hurt? Yes. Yes, everything. Wallowing in her nest of misery the decidedly unhappy morning bird reflects on the night before. Maimeó Maeve had kept them up late swapping stories and when you weren’t talking she’d refill your cup. They must have drunk two bottles of the ichor… Wren pokes her head out from the blankets, stars dancing before her eyes. … Or four. Though she’d love to linger in the warm bed, eventually the little bird braves the chill only to find the old woman in her garden. Even bundled up in fur she seems so much smaller in the light of day. “I thought songbirds usually greet the dawn. Is Nerta turning you into a night owl, or can this old woman still inspire bad habits?” The glittering eyes seem no worse for wear from the night and Maeve gestures with her trowel. “You can do your business down that way, and there’s some food by the fire.” Wren nods, aggravating the ache in her head, before shuffling down from the cliffside home. The vantage gives the squinting eyes time to light upon one tranquil procession after another. Some children collect water from the stream, the smaller among them sagging under the weight of the buckets while the larger boast by carrying two or three. Breaking around their little troupe is a prancing group of goats on the way to a new pasture. Though the shepherd has his eyes on a different ewe, leaning on a fence and chatting with the lady sporting a mane of curly hair who hangs laundry across a line. Her posture seems amused more than anything, though to Wren’s critical eye he seems a bit too keen. Either way their banter is cut off when a little boy drops a bucket. The growing pool of water calls a section of the herd who quite innocently mob the lad who is saved by the hurrying shepherd while the washerwoman laughs. By the time Wren steps out of the privy the little crises had migrated. Awash in a sea of goats, she flutters past each only to catch the eye of the shepherd, Caden. “Wren was it? Sorry for, uh, scaring you yesterday.” His genial way of speaking is filled with pauses, as though he tries to herding words like the goats. “No trouble Caden.” Flashing a smile, she tries out his name, but the tone doesn’t quite work. “Not lookout today?” She shifts to his side, closer to the stairs. “Ya. My turn with the, you know,” he gestures at the herd, “Goats.” His hooves clop as he squares with her once again. “You’re uh, eyes are pretty. Did you want me to… show you around.” His hard stare ruffles the songbird’s feathers, and Wren steps back, only for the goat-totem to step closer. "Thank you, but no Caden." The young man frowns and rubs at his sparse beard. “Eh. You sure? I, uh, know a nice place by the stream. Pretty quiet. We can spend some time, uh, getting to know each other.” The earnest intensity of the shepherd lacks malice, but his stubbornness earns a sharp chirp “No Caden, I will be having breakfast with Maeve.” "Oh." He pauses and, after a bit too long, nods. "Okay. I, uh, hope it's nice." Wren only just begins to relax when he turns. "Oh ya. Nerta's down by the shrine, if you're looking for her." The itching between her shoulder blades only passes a few minutes after he finally left. She'd known wolf-totems with less hunger… Thankfully breakfast is both tasty and filling, not to mention far away from the herd. Old Maeve's knowing smile creases her eyes. "Good job little bird. Caden's a good lad, but a bit slow, and spring hits him pretty hard. Don't worry, if you tell him no he'll listen. You just have to be firm." Trying to bury her face, Wren chirps softly. “Right. Thank you. I find Nerta now.” Darting off before the old woman could say anything else, the little bird easily takes the steps three at a time. She just can’t. The bleating of the herd chases her down the hill to the town square. She… She’s not brave like friend Nerta. Wren the Watcher (Foederati)
Roleplay from Wren the Watcher Message sent to At the Sacred Ring Even though Wren isn’t sure what the shrine looks like, it isn’t too hard to find. In part because there are familiar features. Her tribe also worships the Old Gods, placing carved statues of the five great beings by a bend in the stream. With wood somewhat rare, the mountain tribe probably uses metal, but it should still be somewhere near water. The crowd up on one hill by the junction of the stream and the irrigation ditch is the second clue. Why else would they gather if not for something important? And Nerta’s words certainly seem important… “I don’t know if the Gods are actually fighting dragons for control of the world, and I don’t really care. I just want the Crystal-Cursed ghost gone, but none of us have any idea how to do that.” Nerta’s jaw tightens as a breeze snaps at her cloak. No doubt old Aldo complaining. “But someone might know about this ‘locus of power’ or ‘dragon tears’ and at least asking after that has kept the Old Man quiet for a week.” A wolf-totem woman dressed in ritual attire sitting on Cormac’s left is the first to respond. “I question not your motives, Nerta, but that of the ghost. So convenient that his hunt for power has once again brought him to us. Like the Emperor before him, the lowlanders only seek us out to steal our secrets and exploit our people. Our ancestors aided them and what did it get us? Ancient treaties that became so many empty promises.” The looming bear frowns and nods, but does not speak. Instead a weathered man with antennae coughs before muttering. “Nevermind lowlanders, ghosts are always tricky things. I’m not convinced this one was sent by the Dark Mistress. I mean sure, some people linger in the world rather than join the Court of Shades, but I’ve never heard of the Goddess of Death sending someone. That kind of trick is far more common with the Soul Crusher.” “Not to mention, this ghost has been holding Nerta hostage for months.” The young sheep-totem woman hanging laundry from earlier butts in. “Sounds more like an agent of the Crystal Maiden than the Kind Mother.” “Quite right, the ant-totem man picks up the thought and carries it further. “Why, how do we know that this ghost hasn’t done something to Nerta? Possessed her or misled her? Through no fault of her own she could be an agent of the enemy.” This line of thinking alarms Wren. Nerta, an enemy? In the thrall of the Crystal Maiden? No. No! Impossible! But the crowd murmurs and her friend scowls. “Really, Aidan? Possessed? Working for the Deep One?” Her friend’s glittering eyes narrow. “I thought you were a smith not a weaver, any more fanciful tales you want to spin?” The old man’s antenna twitch and he sniffs. “I didn’t say you were at fault; only that we should be cautious about ghosts. Ghosts who kidnap our daughters for unknown reasons. Surely you would have her return Cormac, bad blood aside.” The Huntmaster frowns, his head turning to the side as he ponders. That he gives it serious thought is surprising to Wren, should not a father say ‘yes’ at once? The gathering seems to expect the pause and waits for the man’s rumbling voice so like the roll of thunder. “Duty’s impahrtent and even de mohst stobbern rohck can be smoothed by a stream. If dis geist cen finahlly teach 'er, all de better.” Nerta’s eternal scowl deepens, but before she can find her voice the wolf-woman snarls. “Give it a rest Cormac, your daughter isn’t interested in becoming Huntmaster.” The bear turns and leans close, the wolf’s ears flattening as he stares her down. Finally he snorts. “Hwhat she hwants doesn’ mahtter. She’ll leahrn te do as she needs...” “Of course. I need help, but what do you care? Make it all about what you want, Cormac.” Nerta’s hiss drips with venom. “Look down your noses at the lowlanders all you want, but you play as many games. Gwendolyn,” she jabs a finger at the woman, “wants her son to be huntmaster so her family can have even more prestige. As if ‘druid’ isn’t enough for your ambition…” Gwendolyn’s hackles rise and she slips out of Cormac’s shadow to try and loom over the angry spider. “You are your father’s daughter, such disrespect.” Something chitters in the back of Nerta’s mouth as she sneers at the wolf. “Ambition and pride. Is there any vice you won’t put on display today, Gwendolyn?” “Det’s me gurl!” Cormac laughs, his massive hand resting atop his belly. “Hit de bihtch on de nose an’ watch ‘er run.” Realising she is pleasing her father with her antics, Nerta throws up her hands. “Enough! I came asking for help, but you’re either scared,” she points to Aidan and the unnamed sheep-totem, “Or want to use me as a pawn in your game.” If her father’s narrowing eyes worries her, Nerta shows no sign. “Neither I, nor Caden want this, but you two are Abyss-bent on forcing it. Even the Crystal-Cursed Old Man occasionally listens; you two have no excuse.” Pushing Gwendolyn back, Nerta turns to stalk out of the ring. “Coming here was a mistake.” The murmuring crowd is almost as fired up as the gathered council, leaving Wren to shrink away. The shouts and shoving can quickly grow into a brawl as various beasts rise to the fore. The little bird had seen this before. When instinct and passion goaded action that was later regretted. Back home usually a chief, bard or druid would try to sooth tempers but that seems pretty far from everyone’s mind. There’s nothing she could do. She, she needed to get out of the crowd. Get to Nerta… The press of bodies doesn’t budge, trapping Wren in the herd as the sheep-totem confronts Nerta. “Convenient you turn to leave after sowing discord. Maybe you are a servant of the Cryst-...” The woman doesn’t even finish before her friend punches her. Wren can only watch wide eyed as the fury of the crowd is unleashed. Soon Nerta is battling others, her many arms letting her fend off the angry ewe and her husband long enough for a few allies to step in and help. But as things spiral out of control the little bird loses sight of what happens next. The heat of the crowd choking her, a hand grabs her shoulder. “You! You came with Nerta. Come on, out with it, is she cursed?” In a panic, Wren scratches at the grapple, surprising the man enough for him to step back and earn a stray blow from a third party. It doesn’t distract the angry hawk-totem for long who screeches and lunges for Wren, but a sudden roar cuts into the brawl like a blade. Towering above the mob like an angry volcano is Cormac, his visage having transformed to that of his bear-totem. “Enough! Daft fools de’lot a ye! De rin’ ihs sacred an’ ye fight before et like beasts? Shame on ye.” Gwendolyn seems to find her voice next. “Cormac is right. Such a display angers the Gods.” The druid gives a most imperious glare at Nerta. “You are fortunate you stepped beyond the ring before you began, or the Gods would surely have punished you.” Her friend sneers, the effect made all the more effective by the spider-like chelicerae that had slipped from her mouth during the fight. Folding them within with a hard swallow, she can’t keep the hiss from her voice. “The Gods already punished me, Gwendolyn.” Dropping the ewe into the arms of her husband, Nerta leaves under a storm cloud only to be tailed soon after by the trembling Wren, who’d finally broken free of the carnage. She should have realised sooner. There is a chief in this mountain tribe. HuntMaster Cormach. Wren the Watcher (Foederati)