A Messenger Leads to Mighty Hart

Everiine

A mist appears within the room, white as pure snow, swirling as a vortex.

Everiine narrows his eyes and slides one foot back, tensing his muscles.

His eyes darting around the room, you say, "I know you are here."

In the centre of the mist, a shape begins to coalesce, a hint of crimson within the argent outline. The shape takes a step forward, its form becoming clear as a massive wolf.

A lord of its kind in size, this spectral beast's form is mercurial and ever-shifting, though the basis of its shape is that of an enormous wolf. Silvery, wispy mists compose its body, the pale fog swirling and frequently scattering as currents of air pass through it, and a cloud of cool mist envelops the ground upon which it stands. Within the confines of its vaporous, canine face glow watery crimson eyes, the irises bleeding into silver at the outward edges, keen with the refined attentiveness of a natural hunter. The long, wispy ears of the beast are blood-red, the tips streaking out in long, hazy tufts; a nebulous collar of the same carmine mist circles its neck, bands of it streaming backwards as if caught in a gale.
A mercurial, crimson-eyed mist-wolf does not even register your presence as a threat.
He is strangely weightless.

Everiine calmly rests his hands on the hilts of his blades, but leaves them in their sheaths--he's no match for such a beast.

A mercurial, crimson-eyed mist-wolf stares calmly at you, unmoving. The white mist trails around it, leaving a growing dew across the treetops in its wake.

Everiine slowly brings his hand to his chest and gives a slight bow, keeping his eyes on the beast. "Speak, if you are able," he bids the creature, folding his painted wings beneath his cloak.

A mercurial, crimson-eyed mist-wolf tilts his head curiously at you.

A mercurial, crimson-eyed mist-wolf paws slightly at the ground, then begins to turn. He looks over his shoulder once, then begins to dart off.

With a spectral howl, a lordly mist-wolf stalks out to the southwest, wisps of crimson and silver mist following in its wake.

(Cue trying to follow the mist-wolf through the woods, constantly being directed to the southwest of the woods to:)

White Hart Grove.
There is but a light breeze blowing. Climbing up through the thick foliage of the rocky slope to the north provides entry into this serene area. There is a primeval stillness that holds this tiny copse at the very centre of this ancient forest with a perpetual hush. Age and time blanket the land with a heaviness, a weighty pall that might bring on a natural reverence in the most open of hearts. Emerald grass keeps to the perfect height, each blade almost clipped in its neatness while blanketing the clearing, small flowers of the sun's captured gold stud the soft carpet with light. So large are the ringing framework of thickly boled oaks that two men reaching round could not hold them tight, although the brambles and thorns that cluster between them manage to create an impenetrable wall. A tiny breeze flits in the air, a serenity matched by the beams of light from above. The leaves rustle reverently, animals visible but silent as they move through the plants, and even the birds that flit overhead sing their sweetest. A clump of golden, four-leaf clovers sway in the breeze here. A hunter's horn rests upon the ground here, its bone construction banded in leather. There are 10 frost hags here. A mature birch tree stands proudly here. Reaching up as high as the eye can see looms the awesome presence of a living totem. As still as a statue, the White Hart stands here motionless, though his amber eyes remain ever watchful. Piercing through the soil with its thin stem, a gold-and-red Hornsmen's iris scents the air with an earthy perfume.
You see a single exit leading north.

You bow respectfully to the White Hart.
The White Hart stares implacably at you.

The White Hart lowers his antlers to you in greeting.

Everiine looks about the grove, searching for something, staring with the intensity of an eagle scouring the ground for prey.

The White Hart stares discerningly at you, watching you curiously.

Everiine fingers the shamrock in his hand, sucks his lip, then quickly departs.

(Gold torc acquired)

Everiine bows again, making sure the golden torc sits well around his neck. "Mighty Hart, I come to Your valley on the trail of a mist-wolf. I know not whether he led me here, or if this is merely a place through which he passed."

A deep baritone voice booms in your head, "He has been here."

You ask, "Do You know what he is?"

You suck thoughtfully on your teeth.

The White Hart stares at you, the 200-points of his majestic antlers upon his head as a crown.

A deep baritone voice booms in your head, "Yes."

Everiine shakes his head, apparently surprised by the answer. "You do?" His attention he gives wholly to the mighty spirit before him. "What is he? From where does he come?" he asks, taking one knee on the valley floor.

A deep baritone voice booms in your head, "He is a messenger. He is not a wolf, but takes the shape of one because it is convenient."

You ask, "A messenger? From whom?"

A deep baritone voice booms in your head, "These days, he calls himself Grey."

The beaded and feathered charms woven into Everiine's crest jostle as his feathers flutter. "I have met him," he says, pulling on the corners of his mouth in thought. "Who is he? It sounds like he used to be known by other names."

A deep baritone voice booms in your head, "He still is. If you are here following his messenger, he intended for you to be here."

You say, "Which begs the question, Mighty Hart--why? Why here?"

A deep baritone voice booms in your head, "I do not know. His motives are beyond me in this."

Everiine frowns in disappointment. "Mighty Hart... who is he? Who is Grey?"

A deep baritone voice booms in your head, "He is a part of the natural order of things, as are we all. He has chosen to watch instead of interfere for a long time, and has taken a name that allows him to do so."

Everiine sucks on his teeth, attempt to unlock the cryptic meaning of the Great Spirit's words. "Is he friend or foe to the Verdant Land?"

A deep baritone voice booms in your head, "It depends on how you define the Verdant Land. He will always be friend to the Serynwodenhillirim and to nature."

Some of the tension held in Everiine's wings releases, and for the first time during the conversation, the old bird looks less worried. "Do You trust him?"

A deep baritone voice booms in your head, "With my life, which given how history has a habit of repeating itself may happen in the near future."

The White Hart emits a snort, as if amused with his own attempt at a joke.

Everiine on the other hand remembers vividly Your sacrifice to trap the spirit of Grutina Oakvine, and the memory of those events seizes him in discomfort. He stares at the ground, trying to gather his thoughts. "I do not know why he brought me here to You," says in a low voice. "But if You have any advice or wisdom as I discern the path forward, Mighty Hart, I beg You share it."

The White Hart stares discerningly at you, before stepping forward and pressing his antlers against your chest.

A deep baritone voice booms in your head, "The forest has always been a place where many paths diverge and conjoin, twisting and turning. All within the forest walk them and often split and come together briefly only to depart. This is the way of things. Serenwilde is a world of opposites coming together, of differences becoming one. This is its strength."

A deep baritone voice booms in your head, "The forest needs to also remember not to fear the hard path. A sacrifice is difficult, but it is often the only way to grow."

A deep baritone voice booms in your head, "Do not forget to stop and taste the sugar cube."

The White Hart steps back, withdrawing his antlers from your chest. He lifts his head high, staring regally down upon you.

Despite himself, Everiine laughs at the last statement, a welcome break from the seriousness and solemness of the conversation. Taking a deep breath, he exhales and rises to his feet. He puts his hand over his chest and bows low and reverently to the White Hart. "Blessings, Mighty Hart. And thank You," he says, readjusting his wings beneath his cloak. Backing away, he finally turns and departs.