Interlude: The Fallen.

She was so hungry.

Lyr’Rael had wandered aimlessly after waking up from her exile. The Eyes hadn’t been kind enough to drop her near any kind of settlement, and she had awakened to the wind whispering its way through the old growth of an ancient forest. It was calm, peaceful, and she was utterly, horribly alone.

At first, she wept. Curled into a ball amidst the gnarled roots of an old oak, uncontrollable sobs wracked her body for hours until she felt wrung out and hollow. Sleep had claimed her then, uncaring for her safety despite the beasts she knew lurked in many of Haven’s wilds. When she woke, despair still gnawed at her gut, but it had been joined by a new companion— hunger. She’d been hungry before when forced into human form, but never like this.

For a while, she ignored it. Starving to death would be a fitting end to her misery, and death was immensely preferable to the hollow loneliness of banishment. At least then it would be over.

However, her body’s biology quickly began to ramp up its complaints, seemingly intent on preventing her apathetic suicide by the sheer force of annoying her into action. The ground she lay on was hard and knobby with roots that dug into her side. The breeze was slightly chilly, carrying a dampness that wormed through the thin gown she’d been given to protect her modesty. Hunger and thirst slowly escalated their cries for succor, and unused as she was to mortal form, she had no defense.

Eventually, biology won out and forced Lyr’Rael unsteadily to her feet. A myriad of aches announced themselves after spending so long laying on the ground, the unfamiliar sensation of pain making her gasp and stumble. That pain— more than anything else— broke through the fugue around her thoughts and brought a surging desire to live to the forefront of her beleaguered mind. With fresh urgency she began looking around for something to eat, tottering her way through the underbrush as she banished her earlier display from memory.

I am not weak. I will live. If the mortals can do this, how hard can it be?

Cramps wracked her stomach as she vomited for the third time, her increasing hunger driving her to eat what turned out to be poisonous berries.

“How… how does anyone survive here? *hurk*”

For hundreds of years, Lyr’Rael had watched the mortal worlds with little more than idle curiosity. Her duties as a Shepherd… her former duties, she corrected, swallowing a fresh surge of tears— meant she rarely interacted with mortals themselves, save for those few times she was dispatched to answer a call from on high. Even then she’d only taken true human form exactly once before, which had led to this whole mess in the first place. Now she regretted not paying more attention to those below as her lack of wilderness survival skills made itself painfully apparent.

How do they know what’s good to eat?? Did they just… try everything until they found out what didn’t kill them? I’m so hungry and thirsty…

Her stomach gurgled, heralding another round of dry heaves as it tried to expel contaminants that couldn’t possibly still be there. It left her feeling even more exhausted, three days without food already robbing the strength from her limbs.

Crawling away from her… mess, she carefully grabbed onto the wide leaves of some underbrush plant and tilted it to her mouth, the morning’s dew providing her with the tiniest bit of water. She’d discovered this by accident, her desperation for water leading her to wring out her clothes as moisture accumulated from the brush until she realized where the precious water originated. It was disgusting, demeaning, and wasn’t nearly enough to satisfy her thirst, but as her needs mounted, her standards lowered. So she found herself licking water from the leaves like an animal, ignoring the humiliation for a few moments of blessed relief for her parched throat.

"So strange a waif ye be, to lick the green so soon after being taught the folly of such."

Lyr'Rael started at the strange voice appearing behind her and tried to spin around, but fatigue turned the motion into an awkward flop. Panicking, she quickly raised her arms to defend herself from… an old woman?

The woman was short, hunched by age with dark, leathery skin wrinkled from a lifetime outdoors. Wispy grey hair was tucked into a faded lavender shawl that hung loosely over an equally faded brown dress. She arched her eyebrows critically at Lyr'Rael's defensive posture.

"Ach, ye'd be a bit past the point o' that, waif. If I wished ye ill then I'd've let ye go on lickin' ya way through the ferns. Here." The old woman tutted disapprovingly before pulling out a wooden flask filled with liquid, carefully sprinkling in some herbs from a pouch at her waist before handing it over.

"Drink up now. Holberry's not likely to kill ye itself, but once the real crampin' starts it'll be weeks afore ye can move again."

Lyr'Rael eyed the flask with a combination of suspicion and desperate hope before snatching it from the old woman's wizened fingers. She tried to sip cautiously at first, but when her senses revealed the liquid to be mostly water she couldn't help taking enormous gulps to soothe her parched throat. The slightly bitter taste of the herbs was easily ignored— it was hardly worse than wringing out her soiled clothing for water.

The flask running dry returned her awareness to her surroundings, and Lyr'Rael flushed with embarrassment as she realized the old woman was looking at her amusedly. Unsteadily, she hauled herself to her feet and presented the flask back to its owner.

"I, ah… apologize." Lyr'Rael said, her voice raspy from disuse and the mornings 'events'. "I am not at my best. Thank you. I am Lyr'Rael, of… nowhere, now…" she faltered.

The woman continued to eye her critically.

"Hmm. Well then, waif Lyr'Rael of nowhere-now, it's a poor sort who'd not help one in need. 'Specially one so clearly not in the Wilds of their own will. Ye may call me Goodmother, it's as good a name as any." Giving Lyr'Rael a final look over, Goodmother sighed resignedly. "Come along then, ye're like to end up back in the same straits on ya own. Least I can do is get ye proper sorted afore ye go and get some beastie to eat ya."

With an impatient wave of her bony fingers, the old woman trundled off surprisingly quickly into the undergrowth. Lyr'Rael hesitated, indecision holding her back, but ultimately found herself scrambling to keep up. The pace was grueling and Lyr'Rael's strength— already diminished from days without food and her earlier sickness— flagged after just minutes. Thick brush clawed at her clothes and snarled in her long hair. Branches like gnarled fingers reached for her at every turn, pressing in on her claustrophobically in a suffocating embrace of greenery.

"What's the matter, waif? Ye can't keep up with an old crone? Such a sad state for today's young'uns, so lazy." Goodmother cackled from up ahead.

Lyr'Rael flushed angrily as her pride prickled under the needling words, spurring herself forwards heedlessly to catch up.

I might not be the pride of heaven, but I am no frail 'waif'!

Pushing for all she was worth, she stumbled breathlessly into an abrupt clearing in the dense forest. The difference was so shocking she nearly fell just from the lack of resistance, blinking owlishly in sudden sunlight. A carpet of soft, green moss blanketed the ground and filled the air with the rich scent of loam. In the center of the clearing stood a simple thatch cabin, round and unadorned save for a series of wreaths and fetishes hanging loosely around the eaves.

The briefest flutter of unexplainable unease swept through her before she quashed it mercilessly, hating herself for allowing even a moment of weakness now. Nightmares of crystal horrors might plague her dreams, but she would never let them rule her daylight hours. Not if she could help it.

"Well, waif? Step inside or go away." Came the crone's voice from within the hut's dark interior. The door hung open like a pitch-black portal, daring her to enter.

With bold steps she marched into the open doorway, squinting while her eyes adjusted to the relative darkness. Heavy curtains sectioned off parts of what would otherwise have been a single room, the curtains all stitched with strange designs that her eyes had difficulty focusing on.

Against the far wall, Goodmother was stirring a small, iron pot. It was etched with runes and moulding so worn they were almost invisible, practically reeking of its age. With a huff, the old woman ladled some soup into a crude wooden bowl and held it out for Lyr'Rael to take. She hesitated again, cursing her inner weakness before taking the bowl with a muttered thanks and barely resisting the hunger-fueled urge to stick her face into it.

"Easy now, it's mostly broth but ya stomach won't be full healed just yet. Ye quaff it all like the water and ye'll be seeing it again right quick." Goodmother cautioned.

Lyr'Rael nodded her understanding and seeing no other option she tilted the bowl back and sipped the brothy mix with agonizing slowness. The old woman smiled approvingly and disappeared behind some curtains. A few moments later she reappeared carrying a wrapped leather bundle.

"The Wilds be a dangerous place, waif. Not all be so lucky I find 'em afore they perish. Their loss be ya gain though—" Goodmother began emptying out the bundle, revealing some simple clothing and basic supplies. "So I suppose ye should be thankful for the lot of brave fools in this world."

Lyr'Rael stared at the growing pile of precious supplies with shock and incomprehension. Surely Goodmother needed these things just as much?

"Why… why are you helping me?" She rasped out, quietly.

"Oh dearie, if it helps ye accept it, ye can think of it as my payin' forward a little debt." The old woman patted Lyr'Rael's hand comfortingly. "The nicest young man did me a passing favor, and old Goodmother isn't one to keep her debts hanging about. I'll help ye get to the town of White Ford, and if you'd like to keep us square, just give the lad a chance when he gets there, eh? Boy could do worse than a fair waif like ye!"

The old woman cackled at that while Lyr'Rael blushed furiously.

No 'boy' will be getting any 'chance' from me. I'll find another way to repay Goodmother for this.

Swallowing her meager pride, she eventually nodded her assent and thanked Goodmother, who clapped loudly and startled Lyr'Rael into almost dropping the bowl.

"It's done then! You'll rest here today, and I'll see ye off in the morning. Now let's get ye sorted…"

The next morning, Lyr'Rael felt a surprising new strength surging through her veins as she left the cabin, clothed in a comfortable set of traveling leathers much more suited for the climate than her thin gown. A travel pack filled with dried rations hung off her shoulders, and a full flask of water hung at her waist. She'd been armed with a small knife and more importantly, a staff that fit comfortably in her hands like it belonged there. It didn't replace her soul-linked spear that the… the monster broke when it had almost killed her in the heart ward, but just having something similar was a balm to her soul. A tug on her wrist pulled back her attention as Goodmother proffered her a small, beaded bracelet with a songbirds' skull woven into the fibers.

"This little one lived his life in White Ford. His soul's moved on, but the spirit remembers the way home." Holding up the bracelet, Goodmother spun around slowly, eventually stopping at a point to the northeast when the bird skull perked up like a lodestone and crooned softly. "Wear it, and ye'll arrive right as rain in a few days."

A twinge of discomfort went through Lyr'Rael as she looked at the bracelet, the proximity to necromancy bringing yesterday's wariness back to the forefront before she again dismissed her concerns.

I am not afraid.

Offering her wrist, Goodmother quickly attached the bracelet and shooed her from the clearing.

"Go on then, waif. And don't let me catch ye lickin' no ferns again, hear?"

Lyr'Rael flushed at the reminder and hurried from the clearing while the crone's cackles resounded through the forest air. Gingerly, she lifted up her wrist and waved the bracelet until it again pointed northeast and whistled with soft birdsong. Nodding to herself, she marched off into the forest, repeating a mantra over and over in her mind with every step.

I am not afraid. I will live. I am not afraid.

The crone watched the fallen emissary disappear from her domain, eyes gleaming from the darkness of the cabin.

"Such a prideful little thing, but then, her kind always are."

Quick as a snake, Goodmother's hand struck out and snatched a glimmering golden thread from the air just as the girl passed the boundary of the clearing.

"Tsk. Such sloppy work, little spider. Is this what you've been up to while I was gone?" Sighing dramatically, the woman began dissolving into mist, followed quickly by the cabin, and then even the clearing. "It seems you young'uns have indeed gotten lazy while I've been sleeping. You've let the game grow stale."

The briefest flash of coils appeared in the depths of the mist, the musk of the great serpent spreading out and continuing to cow the various denizens of the forest into the terrified stillness within their burrows. It wouldn't do to have her little 'gift' be eaten on the way now. The golden thread squirmed for a moment in the air before snapping under invisible strain.

"Let's shake up the board a bit."