White clouds drifted lazily through a clear, expansive blue sky, casting soft, fleeting shadows over the lush green valley below. A flock of birds soared effortlessly overhead, their cheerful chirping echoing through the air. The valley stretched out in vibrant hues, its beauty split in half by the slow, meandering river that snaked through its heart, reflecting the bright sunlight like a ribbon of liquid silver.
At the entrance to this idyllic landscape stood towering statues, imposing guardians, standing tall over the mouth of the river. These humanoid figures, carved with meticulous detail, had long, pointed ears and expressions of serene vigilance. Pieces of their full features had weathered away in the long years they stood over this valley. Their bows drawn and notched, ready to defend what laid beyond.
Scattered behind the guardian's gaze were the remains of grand arches and columns, remnants of a once magnificent city. The ruins whispered of a time long past, a graveyard of secrets and lost culture that beckoned with untold stories.
A landscape rich with history, an open-air museum where nature and echoes of the past intertwined. The verdant growth reclaimed the stone, weaving through the cracks and crevices, as if nature itself sought to destroy what remained of answers to long past questions.
“We shouldn’t be here, Chalia.”
Orrian stepped lightly through the valley, each footfall cautious as he made his way through the ancient ruins. He was acutely aware of the significance of the land he traversed, careful to avoid anything that might be a man-made object. He didn’t want to step on any magic traps or curses that were left behind that had not been triggered.
His long, pointed ears twitched at the slightest sound, attuned to the subtle symphony of the valley. A gentle tumble of a rock or the sudden flutter of wings were enough to catch his attention. He hated this place and wanted to leave as soon as possible.
It wasn't that he didn't want to be here; he was eager for any chance to spend more time with Chalia. He had harbored a crush on her for years but had never found the right moment to express his true feelings. In fact, the entire village seemed to know he wanted to be more than friends. Yet, Chalia kept him at a distance, and it fueled his passion for her more. It intrigued him. He just hadn't expected this opportunity to involve exploring a ruin that was undeniably creepy.
“Come on Orrian!” Chalia playfully skipped around the ruins, her steps light and carefree, unconcerned about where she placed her feet. Her movements were a dance of spontaneity and joy, a stark contrast to Orrian's cautious nature. “There’s still so much to discover.”
Occasionally, she would stop to pick up a rock or a fragment of pottery, studying it with brief curiosity before moving on to the next object that caught her eye. For Chalia, the exploration was never about the destination; it was the journey itself that exhilarated her. Each visit to the ruins revealed something new, a detail she might have missed before, adding layers to her understanding of this city and how the people here lived.
Her laughter echoed softly through the timeless stones, infusing the air with a sense of life and vitality that had long since departed. She was painfully aware of Orrian's admiration for her, a fact that added an extra layer of enjoyment to her playful exploration. It wasn’t hard to notice—Orrian was far from subtle, his glances and gestures betraying the fondness he held for her. Chalia couldn't help but feel a little thrill at the thought of his attention, and she found herself enjoying the idea of making him work a bit to earn her affection. She had been laying the groundwork for some time now, creating opportunities for Orrian to express his feelings in a way that would seem like his idea.
Chalia stopped at the top of the flight of stairs she'd climbed, turning back to face Orrian with a mix of exasperation and amusement. Her expression was resolute, her stance confident as she dismissed the village's superstitions. "Stop being a stìobaran, Orrian," she teased, the insult slipping out with a playful lilt. "The Aes Sídhe died out thousands of years ago. No one is left to steal your soul. There is no such thing as cursed land."
Her words were direct, cutting through the haze of fear and folklore that had long shadowed his imagination. Orrian quickened his pace, determined to catch up to where Chalia had paused. "The elders told us not to travel through Sorloral," he reminded her, the caution in his voice tempered by concern.
"The elders are fools, stubborn and..." Chalia's voice softened slightly, but her conviction remained strong as she pivoted to face Orrian directly. "They are all mochta," she declared with an edge of disdain that spoke volumes about her feelings toward the village's leadership.
"Chalia…" Orrian began, but he hesitated, biting his tongue as he considered his words. He knew of her past, the hardships she had endured, and the countless hurdles she had overcome to reach the place she was today. The village's treatment of her was a constant reminder of societal prejudice, all because of the shade of her skin—a difference that the elders deemed a bad omen. To Orrian, her skin was not a mark of misfortune but a beautiful part of who she was, and he refused to let their ignorance cloud his view.
“The Elders have their reasons. You are too hard on them.”
He didn't care whether her ancestry linked her to the Aes Sídhe or made her different from those around them. All he saw was Chalia—the spirited, courageous woman who had captured his heart with her vivacious spirit and unwavering strength. To him, she was simply Chalia, the love of his life, and nothing the elders decreed could change that.
If loving her made him an outcast, or if it cost him the elders' trust, then so be it. Orrian's loyalty lay unequivocally with Chalia, and he was prepared to face whatever consequences might arise from their relationship.
As he met her gaze, he wished to convey his unwavering support and admiration, hoping she could see how deeply he cared and how ready he was to embrace whatever lay ahead with her.
“Forget it,” Chalia said abruptly, turning away from Orrian and continuing to walk in silence. Her heart felt heavy with disappointment. Despite her hopes, she felt foolish for thinking Orrian might be different from the others in the village when it came to understanding the nuances of her lineage.
The village tolerated her presence, but only as a final wish of her mother. Her mixed heritage branded her as a Drow even though she was a half-breed. Elsewhere in the world, being a half-elf was not unusual; many half-elves thrived in various roles, some even achieving high-ranking professions. In these broader societies, being a half-breed was not considered inherently evil or problematic—it was simply another part of the rich tapestry of diversity.
What set Chalia apart was her bloodline, which linked her to the enigmatic Aes Sídhe. She was a dark elf, a connection that held both mystery and prejudice. The Drow were often misunderstood and shrouded in myth, with tales of their ancestral ties coloring the perceptions of those around them. There were not many Drow left in the world either from being hunted or the bloodline simply vanishing through careful breeding.
Behind her, Orrian followed closely, his mind preoccupied with finding the right words to mend the rift his earlier comments had caused. Anxiety gnawed at him and his heart sank realizing that his words had upset Chalia, and he grappled with his tendency to involve himself in matters that were not his own to address.
Cool air enveloped Chalia and Orrian as they passed through a large, arched gateway, the atmosphere imbued with the earthy scent of moss and damp stone. Under the archway, Chalila’s eyes were drawn to the intricate carvings that adorned the weathered stones. She reached into her pack and pulled out paper and charcoal. With a gentle touch with the charcoal she traced over the grooves and ridges so she had a copy to study later in her room.
Orrian watched Chalia with a mix of admiration and contemplation. He could see the wonder in her eyes, the deep connection she felt with the echoes of the past. In that moment, he understood that her fascination with the ruins was more than just a quest for knowledge; it was a bridge to something greater, a way for Chalia to connect with her bloodline.
Through the archway, Chalia and Orrian stepped into a vast courtyard. Vines twisted and curled around fallen pillars, their tendrils weaving through cracks and crevices with quiet persistence. Wildflowers dotted the ground, their vibrant hues of yellow, purple, and red adding splashes of color to the otherwise muted palette of grays and browns. This juxtaposition of decay and renewal painted a picture of life's enduring cycle.
At the center of the courtyard stood a great tall oak tree, its presence commanding and solemn. The tree's leaves had long since fallen, leaving behind a quiet majesty in its bare branches. Its roots spread wide and deep, breaking through the intricate stonework that had once been meticulously laid, turning up the ornate patterns and reshaping the courtyard's landscape.
Around the oak, statues of various women were arranged in a circle, their poses frozen in time. Many had toppled, their fragmented forms littering the dull mosaic beneath them, which had faded under the relentless elements. Vines and other plant life had claimed the statues as new homes, their growth obscuring the once-detailed faces and intricate designs of the women's clothing. It was difficult to discern who these figures had been, their identities lost to the encroaching wilderness.
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Chalia felt an unspoken reverence for the scene, as if she shared a deep, intrinsic connection with this place. It seemed somehow familiar to her, an unforeseen force drawing her closer to the heart of the courtyard. She moved with purpose, her senses attuned to the subtle whispers that lingered in the air.
"It stinks of decay and rot," Orrian muttered, his unease heightened as he frantically scanned the surroundings. The scent of the courtyard, a blend of earthy dampness and the remnants of life long past.
Chalia paused by the broken-off head of one of the statues, bending down to gently brush away the vines and moss that obscured its features. To her relief, the details of the face had been well preserved, facing down in the dirt as if purposefully hidden from view.
"Look at this," Chalia called to Orrian, holding the head aloft and turning it toward him. "It's Badb."
Orrian's eyes widened with recognition, and a shiver shot through his spine. The name resonated with him, and his legs ached to carry him back to the safety of the village, where he could lie in bed and pretend this discovery had never happened. "The Aes Sídhe worshipped The Three Sisters?" he asked, his voice tinged with disbelief.
The Aes Sídhe, were shrouded in mystery and myth, no one knew which deities they worshipped. Most of the history had been lost through fires and kingdoms changing hands. Chalia's discovery hinted at the possibility of uncovering more about the connections between the Aes Sídhe and the revered sisters. It was an invitation to delve deeper, to piece together the stories that had been lost to time.
“This changes everything we know about Aes Sídhe culture and why they lived as long as they did," Chalia pondered aloud, the revelation about the statue resonating within her.
As the implications of her words sunk in, the light around them seemed to dim, casting the courtyard in an eerie twilight. Their breath became visible in the chilled air, each exhalation mingling with the growing sense of unease. A high-pitched screech pierced the silence, emerging from the nearby tree line. The sound sent a cold chill through their nerves, pulling the wind from their lungs and leaving them hoping desperately that the wail of the unseen entity would move away from the courtyard.
A flock of birds erupted from the trees, their swift departure only heightening the sense of foreboding that surrounded them. Ravens, darker than the night itself, perched ominously on the branches of a dead tree at the center of the courtyard. Their presence was unsettling, as if they were harbingers of secrets.
A cool breeze swept through the courtyard, rustling the leaves and vines. As the clouds parted, pale moonlight descended like a beacon, illuminating the ancient tree and casting long shadows across the ground. In this spectral light, a soft white crow with deep, beady red eyes alighted upon the headless statue, its gaze fixed intently on Chalia.
The crow tilted its head in her direction, as if acknowledging her presence and the discovery she had made. Its red eyes glowed with an enigmatic intensity, hinting at knowledge beyond her understanding. Chalia felt the weight of its gaze, an unspoken communication that seemed to transcend the boundaries of language.
“I think you might be right, Orrian.” Chalia dropped the carved stone from her hand and backed away towards the entrance. “We should not be here.”
Flashes of lightning arced behind the dark clouds illuminating the world below with fleeting bursts of brilliance. Each flash was followed by the deep, resonant roll of thunder, a sound that seemed to echo from the very core of the earth. Light rain began to drizzle down, its cool droplets pattering softly against the two elves who stood together, their embrace a refuge against the gathering storm.
Amidst the white flashes that lit up the sky, the ground beneath them suddenly trembled. The earth cracked open with a deep, resonant groan, and from within the fissures, a surge of vibrant green energy erupted, spiraling upward in a mesmerizing display. A once-dead tree, now pulsating with life and outgrowing its ancient stone circle.
Perched crows, startled by the sudden burst of energy, took flight in a flurry of black feathers, scattering in multiple directions. Yet, amid this chaos, one crow remained—a pale crow, its feathers almost luminescent against the stormy backdrop. It watched intently, its piercing eyes fixed on Chalia.
The wailing from the forest grew louder, a haunting symphony of sorrow and despair that echoed through the very forest. It was an otherworldly sound, chilling and mesmerizing, drawing the attention of all who heard it. As the two elves stood frozen, their hearts pounding with a mixture of fear and awe, the source of the lament emerged from the shadows.
Two ghostly feminine figures glided forth from the dense forest, their ethereal forms shimmering with an unsettling luminescence. Their faces were both beautiful and terrifying, etched with expressions of eternal grief. The air around them grew colder, and an eerie dread took hold as they floated steadily toward the courtyard. The figures moaned and screamed, their voices weaving a chilling tapestry of anguish that resonated in the very core of the elves' beings.
“Ben síde?” Orrian cired. Here?”
He glanced at Chalia, noticing how her attention had shifted entirely to the pale crow. Her eyes were locked onto the bird with an intensity he had never seen before. As if caught in some invisible thread of connection, Chalia tilted her head to the side, and, mirroring her movements with uncanny precision, the crow did the same. It was as if they were engaged in a silent conversation, a dance of gestures that transcended understanding.
Despite the chaos unfolding around them—the wailing spirits, the crackling energy from the revived tree, and the stormy sky—Chalia felt a moment of clarity. The crow called to her, not with words, but with a feeling, a whisper of reassurance that touched her soul. Yet, beneath this comfort lay an underlying tension, a reminder of the danger that surrounded them.
A creeping doubt began to take hold. She realized she should not have come here, to this place. The past should have stayed buried and forgotten.
Orrian moved closer to Chalia, resting a reassuring hand on her shoulder. He sensed her unease and shared her fascination with the enigmatic crow, but his attention was also drawn to the ghostly figures—the ben síde, creatures of legend that had remained unseen for centuries, until now.
The presence of the ben síde was fraught with significance, steeped in the lore passed down through generations. According to myth, hearing their haunting cries was a dire warning, a foretelling of impending death. It was an urgent signal, urging those nearby to turn back before it was too late. But to actually see them, as Orrian and Chalia did now, meant something far more ominous—their appearance was a sign that one's fate was sealed, and their time had come.
He squeezed Chalia's shoulder gently, offering what comfort he could. “Chalia, I love you. I have for a very long time.”
Chalia faced Orrian one last time, her eyes tracing every detail of his face as if to etch his features permanently into her memory. She wanted to remember everything about him—his expression, his presence, the familiar scent that brought her comfort. "I know. You don't know how long I have been waiting for you to say those words," she whispered, her voice full of emotion.
They embraced tightly, their arms wrapping around each other in a hug that held the weight of finality. In that moment, they both braced for what felt like an inevitable end, drawing strength from their shared connection. The earth beneath them, however, had different plans.
The ground trembled violently, and they stumbled backward, struggling to regain their balance as the courtyard erupted into chaos. The remaining stone walls crumbled around them, the air filled with dust and the sound of ancient masonry giving way. Outside the courtyard, the earth heaved as four body-shaped mounds emerged outside the courtyard bounds, turning up soil that had not seen the light of day in centuries.
From these mounds, the same vibrant green energy that had surged from the tree now pulsed, casting an eerie glow across the landscape. As the dust settled, towering stone coffins emerged from the mounds. Figures—elves, each one a different shade ranging from dark gray to deep purple, their skin tones a testament to who they were.
Chalia gasped, her breath catching in her throat as realization dawned upon her. These were no ordinary elves—they were Aes Sídhe. The Drow’s eyes contained the same green energy that had awakened them, crackling like lighting.
One of the Drow approached with an air of grace and authority, her presence commanding attention. She was unclothed, as if reborn from the earth itself, her long curly white hair cascading over her shoulders, interwoven with twigs and dried leaves—a striking contrast to her dark purple skin, which seemed to absorb the moonlight and radiate its own subtle glow. Each step she took was deliberate, and the others followed her, moving with an elegant, ethereal quality that left Chalia and Orrian standing in awe.
“How unusual,” the woman mused aloud, her voice carrying a melodic, otherworldly tone. She paused mid-thought, her attention shifting to the ghostly spirits now approaching, their forms draped in gray, ragged clothes that fluttered like shadows in the night. These spirits, with their hollow eyes and haunting presence stood outside the courtyard boards like they were waiting for a command from their master.
“She wants no witnesses to this rebirth,” the Aes Sídhe woman declared, her gaze sharp and knowing as she regarded the spirits. It was as if she understood their intent.
The woman's hands reached out toward the two young elves, her grip firm and unyielding. Chalia and Orrian struggled and tried to plead for their lives, but their cries were met with indifference. With a flick of her wrist, an unsettling silence descended upon the courtyard, their voices abruptly stilled. She tossed them aside, seemingly unaffected by their plight, and took a deep, deliberate breath, savoring the air of this world once more.
“Emcen?” she called out, her inky black eyes scanning her surroundings with a calculating gaze before a smirk slowly crept across her lips. A familiar presence caught her attention—a pixie darted up into view, its wings shimmering with an ethereal light. Her chuckle filled the air, a rare moment of warmth as she welcomed the reunion with her favorite pixie. The ruins loomed around her, stirring a mix of nostalgia and anxiety. Questions raced through her mind about the time she had been away, the changes that had taken place.
“It’s good to have you back, Neia,” the pixie chimed with glee, its small form flitting excitedly around her.
As Neia took in her surroundings, one of the newly arrived dark elves approached her side, casting a curious glance at the motionless bodies of Chalia and Orrian. "What of these two?"
Neia considered the question, her gaze shifting to the great oak tree at the center of the courtyard. The pale raven, a spectral presence, remained perched on a branch, its beady eyes watching the scene with an inscrutable gaze. "Let Badb’s favored banshee feed on their souls," Neia decided, her voice carrying a note of finality.
She turned her attention fully to the great oak tree, acknowledging the raven's vigilant watch. "The sisters are watching us, and it would be rude to not leave a gift," Neia remarked, a subtle smile playing on her lips.
