[PP-08] Senile Rot and Sensibilities [Rumour]

[Freyd 0]

Rain and darkness...  

It wasn't long ago that these two qualities nearly swallowed Aincrad whole, like a cancer growing just below the surface that burst forth in hungry violence.  They combined and spread like a flood to consume every inch of this fragile, digital reality, drawing every terrified soul down into impossible depths, never to be seen again - except they were.  He remembered the faces of the fallen in the roiling black ink of Shadow's chamber.  The experience had touched him more than most would ever know.

Freyd stood alone on a high balcony overlooking the grand waterfall at Ellesmera's magical city centre, gazing silently as it spilled twilight into the hidden valley below.  The darkened liquid and mist mixed and gushed over the edge with a mystically muted thunder that conveyed both nature's power and serenity.  Rare glimpses of the twinkling stars snared upon the churning surface from overhead and reminded him of the skies over Coral at the height of the Tanabata festival.  These fell and joined with the mysterious and oddly selective showers of floor eight, which only ever occurred at night.  Perhaps someone felt that they marred the city's sleek and sinuous beauty, where white wood buildings flowed and intertwined between massive trees.  Every inch of the place looked like it was grown then woven strands had been laid and groomed over it to serve as art, as much as lodgings.  'Majestic' was the word that came to mind, and the residents would agree.  The elves could be a haughty lot, and his past dealings hadn't always been all that pleasant; he'd sided with the Treants, long ago, though a more recent excursion with Freya seemed to smooth things over a bit.

A black-gloved hand, his right, rested casually atop an elegant balustrade at the platform's edge.  Both were slick with the indistinguishable mixture of rain, mist and dew.  The rest of his lanky, slender form stood silently beyond, just far enough back to remain dry.  Uncharacteristically, the man's cowl rested upon his back and shoulders.  Pale blue and green gossamer orbs clinging to nearby branches and structures cast a soft yet mildly gloomy light across the scene.  Most of him just blended in, looking like little more than another wavering shadow caught between random reflections.  Freyd's pale skin looked almost sickly in the light, his red eyes menacing, like some ghastly thing skulking in the dark.  His mood was more pensive.  Without a word, his image rippled from head to toe and subtle changes followed: hair paled, pasty skin flushed to a healthier tone and his ears lengthened to match those of the locals.

"When in Rome," he muttered to no one in particular.

"Strange how the wind seems to stop at night, and this rain always falls straight down.  It's a nice touch."  Behind him his shadow folded its arms, acting with disturbing independence and a hint of boredom.  The streets were abandoned.  Even the nearby portal plaza was empty, its shops having closed with the sunset.  It was a good time to travel, and even better for prowling investigation.  Rumours had reached him of something odd occurring in the Graveyard of the Willowed.  Freyd had long been fascinated by the concept of funeral rites in a world where nothing lingered to bury beyond the moment of death.  He wasn't morbid about it, but the simple fact that someone had bothered to make the effort to address it struck a chord.  Remembering the fallen mattered, no matter who or what they once were.

@Alkor

Rumour:

Spoiler

The flowers at the Graveyard of the Willowed are starting to die. Since they're supposed to contain the souls of dead elves, that's an obvious problem.

***

Freyd | HP: 1080/1080 | EN: 142/142 | DMG: 27 | MIT: 123 | ACC: 7 | EVA: 3 | BH: 59 | LD: 8 | FLN: 16 | HLY: 16 | PARA IMMUNE | REC: 8

Consumables:

Spoiler

Crème Brûlée (Snack) | Accuracy 2 [173477]
Smores (Snack) | Evasion 2 [173981] + Filled
Liquor of Light (Potion) | Damage 3 [178130-2]
Berry Crumb Bars (Snack) | LOOT DIE 3 [175352]
Mini Cheesecake (Meal) | T3 Mitigation 3 [177102]

Full Stats:

Spoiler

Freyd, The Whisper in Shadow
Level: 32
Paragon Level: 103
HP: 1080/1080
EN: 142/142

Stats:
Damage: 24 (+3)
Mitigation: 78 (+45)
Accuracy: 5(+2)
Evasion: (+2+1)
Battle Healing: 59
Loot Dice: 5 (+3)
FLN: 16
HLY: 16
PARA IMMUNE
REC: 8

Equipped Gear:
Weapon: Samael's Pride (T4 MA | HLY 2 | FLN 2)
Armor: Fallen Angel Garb (T4 LA | Mit 2 | Rec 2)
Misc: The Shadowed Rose (T3 Trinket - ACC 3 | Para.Imm)

Custom Skill:


Skills:
Martial Arts R5
Battle Healing R5
Light Armor R5
Searching R4
Charge
Energist
Quick Change
Extended Mod Limit

Active Mods:
Night Vision
Tracking
Meticulous
Untraceable

Inactive Mods:

Addons:
Ferocity
Precision
Resolve
Reveal
Stamina

Active Extra Skills:
Disguise
Survival
Forgotten King’s Authority
Hiding R5

Inactive Extra Skills:
Meditation
Brawler
Photosynthesize

Battle Ready Inventory:
Teleport Crystals x7
Mass HP Rec [Inst] (+30*T HP) x7
Mass HP Rec [Inst] (+30*T HP) x7
Crystal of Divine Light (Reusable) x1
Rhino's Horn (Reusable) x1
Hmr.Pk: The Thing Behind All Lies (T4 Demonic WH, AA, Blight, Static, Para.Ven (Off)) x1

Housing Buffs:
Rested: -1 energy cost for the first two expenditures of each combat
Clean: The first time you would suffer DoT damage in a thread, reduce damage taken from DoT each turn by 20% (rounded down)
Working: +2 EXP per crafting attempt
Filling: Increase the effectiveness of a single food item consumed in a thread by +1 T1 slot.
Item Stash: +1 Battle Ready Inventory Slot
Delicious: Turn 3 identical food items (same quality, tier, & enhancements) into a Feast. A Feast contains 6 portions of the food items sacrificed.
Relaxed: Increases out of combat HP regen by (5 * Tier HP) and decreases full energy regen to 2 Out of Combat Posts.
Skylight (Searching): +1 Rank to the Searching skill.
Angler: +1 material gained when fishing
Advanced Training: +10% Exp to a thread. Limit one use per month [0/1]
Multipurpose: Gain +1 to LD, Stealth Rating, Stealth Detection, or Prosperity to one post in a thread. Can be applied after a roll
Decor [Potted Tanabata Bamboo Tree]: This buff affects the player and their choice of up to two party members.

Guild Hall Buffs:
Lucrative: Reduce LD needed for Salvage by 5 (10+ for Alchemist crystals, 6+ for everything else). +2 EXP per craft. Rank 9 crafters receive +1 crafting attempt per day. Rank 10 crafters receive +2 crafting attempts per day.
Col Deposit: +5% bonus col from last-hit monster kills and +10% bonus col from treasure chests.

Scents of the Wild:
Kumatetsu Statue: +1 Base Damage for a thread

Wedding Ring:

 

[Alkor 0]

Lambent light nestled within the elegant structures of Ellesmera, glistening off the raindrops that seeped through the canopy of leaves. The architecture served as beacons in the absence of moonlight or the stars to guide him as he trekked through the sepulchral city. Whether it was the absence of daylight or the annoyance of rain that hurried them off the streets, there were no elves to be seen. The only sounds came from precipitation as it struck and reverberated, splotchy and dank in contrast to the surreal beauty. The shuttering of windows and soft shutting of doors broke caught his attention as Alkor made his way north.

The forest was a place of growth. Elves celebrated their longevity and the gift of life itself. They accepted the end, but sequestered their deference to it beyond the boundaries of their city. It did not surprise him when they shut themselves away, or that they treated his trajectory as an ill omen. They did not simply invite the outsider into their homes. They prayed him away with haste and barred their doors as he passed, with hope that his gaze would not settle on them. He kept his eyes dutifully forward, almost merciful, almost like the god of death they perceived him to be.  

He had not come for them.

His hood was drenched, dripping as he pressed on. "Is it true, I wonder?" he questioned as the city fell into the backdrop in his wake. The path crept along for a time, serpentine and carefully planned so that the Elves would not look upon it save for in the correct time, under the correct circumstances. He crested a hill and the road forked, almost like an invitation to turn away or go anywhere else. He could feel the fear, primal and unmitigated, meticulously ingrained down to the very civil engineering. He could understand the aversion. Respect and Fear often overlapped, regardless of cultural differences. 

Alkor continued along the path. At the end, he found the small field of monuments. Unlike other parts of the forest, the willows here were deliberate. Whether they were planted to block out sunlight or the markers were placed strategically, it sent a clear message. Light did not belong in this place. "Hmm..." Alkor knelt, and he reached out to touch one of the many stones. The elven glyphs glittered faintly at the provocation, almost like they wanted to communicate. He pulled his fingers slowly away and looked at them, dimly aware of the presence of soot and ash. A colorful bloom caught his eye- he'd almost missed it with no light to differentiate it from shadows.

"A flower that tethers the souls of the dead to the world of the living," he mused. "They do enjoy their superstitions, at least."

Alkor | HP: 780/780 | EN: 114/114 | DMG: 23 | MIT: 30 | ACC: 5 | EVA: 3 | BH: 42 | LD: 1 | BLT: 32 | BLD: 48 | PARA

Spoiler

Stats

Level 32 // Paragon 30

780/780 HP  114/114 EN

23 Base Damage 30 Mitigation

5 Accuracy 3 Evasion 

32 Blight Damage (20 Mitigation loss for duration) 

48 Bleed Damage

Paralyze

42 Battle Healing 

Survival (10% increase to healing effects applied)

Equipment:

Witchfang : Tier 4 Demonic One Handed Straight Sword // CURSED / BLIGHT / BLEED / PARALYZE

"Forged from the fang of a Black Dragon, this blade promises ruin to those who are struck by it. The blade's edge is fashioned of Obsidian andinvested with a myriad of afflictions."

Cloak of the Wanderer : Tierless Perfect Light Armor // EVASION / EVASION / EVASION

 "Tattered from the wear of many battles, this cloak was once worn by a warrior who faced the trials of the Castle and through the flames found the strength to walk again."

Eye of Osiris : Tierless Perfect Accessory // ACCURACY / ACCURACY / ACCURACY

"A pin fashioned in the style of Ancient Egyptian hieroglyphs, depicting the eye of the god Osiris."

Skills, Mods, Addons:

<<One Handed Straight Sword>> rank 5
<<One Handed Straight Sword>> Ferocity Addon  
Stamina Addon 
Precision Addon 

<<Light Armor>> rank 5 
Meticulous Mod
Resolve Mod

<<Battle Healing>> rank 5
Emergency Recovery Mod 
Energist

Combat Mastery: Damage   
ST Specialist Combat Shift 

Charge 
Parry

Extra Skill: Survival

 

Edited February 13, 2022 by Alkor

[Freyd 0]

The last drizzling drops stopped just as the sun crept over the horizon, sweeping the sky clear of clouds with its magnificent radiance.  Freyd had never quite see anything like it.  Cumulonimbus shriveled like deflating balloons, vanishing to give way to hue of fuchsia, fading to orange and gold before the azure plane took hold over the skies.  Few took the time to find a proper vantage point from where to witness this regular occurrence.  Floor eight's foliage and forest canopy obscured the transition from the ground.  Finding a sufficiently solid perch had been the issue and taken some effort, especially while the rains persisted.  From here he could also better survey the woods as a whole.  The Graveyard of the Willowed lay to the north, marked, unsurprisingly, by a hearty grove of willow trees that could easily be spotted from above.  They looked like a hole in the fabric of the forest - a bowl into which were meant to be poured memories of the fallen, or so the tales would have you believe.

Darting through the treetops, Freyd managed the distance in no time, arriving at the edge of the grove in time to see another figure cresting a nearby hill.  Not an elf.  Too tall and broad.  And certainly not a treant.  Alternatives were few and far between on this floor, especially without some fae or sylvan affiliation.  Most likely another player, though he was too far to tell the colour of any crystal spinning atop its head. 

Could a player be behind whatever is happening?  Alchemists could be a notoriously unscrupulous bunch.  Maybe one had found some malignant use for some essence or element that could only be found here?  It wouldn't be the first time such a thing had happened.

Tumbling down from branch to branch, Freyd concealed himself among the scattered stone monuments and overgrown underbrush, enough to close the distance.  The figure looked more familiar close up, and his icon shone with an emerald hue.  Not exactly zero threat, but at least more comforting than the alternative.  Why did he look so familiar?  More importantly, why was he here?

***

Rolling for stealth: ID #203659 - LD 16+5 =21

[Alkor 0]

Dawn came in silence.

He might have missed the sunrise if he hadn't glanced up for a moment. The willow trees dwarfed the small lichyard, and unlike the trees that swelled in the expanses of the floor all around them, these let nothing through. It was like eternal night, almost prodigiously so. He thought to ask one of the elves or a treant, or anyone else who might have been involved with the construction of the site, but there was no one. It was the untimely loss of the strange flora that bloomed around the monuments that drew him hear, on the winged words of an information broker, but nothing seemed out of the ordinary. Flowers that bloomed near graves were an ill omen in the world he knew, but the culture he was different. They were grim, but they were reminders of a life lived, a connection between two worlds. So long as they existed, those souls might never truly die.

That was the tale, at least. In practice, there were hardly enough blossoms to make such an argument defensible. Alkor counted on less than two hands the number of flowering plants that thrived here, and rightly so. A lack of sunlight proper made for poor conditions and fickle soil. His grandmother had loved gardening, and she shared that with him despite his protests as a boy. In the end, the knowledge he gained helped him find peace among leaves and blooms, a welcome respite from the harshness of the real world. In the end, his grandmother's love of plants was not enough to save him from the overwhelming urge to flee. The same could be said for these plants. Despite their best efforts to thrive, their circumstances made their very existence an anomaly, if not a miracle.

"It's too bad this game doesn't let just anyone find information about plants," he muttered as he hovered his hand over the burgeoning flower only to be met with a series of question marks. "I might have to suggest someone who knows a thing or two about horticulture come out and have a look." His assessment seemed open and shut, but there were still questions to be asked. There were still things he could learn, finite though his abilities were. 

With daylight came the breeze, and the yawn of morning sent a chill down Alkor's spine. There would be no elves to hound him, not unless it was a day of mourning. He watched the horizon quietly like someone or something might appear, but nothing did. The longer he waited, the more he started to think that the flowers were simply unfit for their current conditions. He stood upright and stretched out, arms crossed behind his head as he cracked his back. "Shame," he muttered. "I was hoping for something more..."

He found himself following the example set by the wind and let out a yawn. Like so many times before, he had forgotten to sleep. Perhaps time had just bled together, and he just lost track of the times when he should. Though time moved normally in Aincrad, his mind had long since disassociated from the real world. Night and day ceased to play a role in his circadian rhythm, if there were a rhythm at all. These days, it was wild drumbeats played by the hands of infant children: inane, without direction, erratic. He slept when his body crashed, or he could no longer fight the urge.

"...interesting," he finished the thought a moment later, disinterested now in his surroundings. The urge to rest had come on suddenly and powerfully, and this seemed like as good a place as any. Alkor curled up next to one of the willows, and with his sheathed blade pressed close to his body beneath one arm, he bowed his head and nodded off. 

"Oh well. Maybe if I wait an hour or two..." he started to say, but his eyelids were drooping.

[Freyd 0]

Freyd scrunched his face up beneath his cowl, watching the player perform a cursory examination.  Was he seriously going to sleep in a graveyard where things were rumoured to mysteriously perish?  That was either ballsy, oblivious, or just plain dumb, but he honestly couldn't tell which.  About to stand and challenge the man, he barely managed to cry out a warning as the ancient willow against which the stranger reclined suddenly lurched and opened a wizened face upon its trunk.  A deep, angry scowl mimicked the downward swoop of weeping branches upon its haggard face.

"Watch out!"  

Slumping boughs covered in rotting leaves revealed the heart of the grove to be a treant, and not a tiny one at that!  His call caught the creature's attention, forcing him to dive forward and roll through a mound of its dried cast-offs to evade a multitude of angry whomps as he tumbled forward and pulled the sleeper away from the trunk.  Roots broke the ground and smashed the spot where he had lain his head, barely missing it as Freyd snagged the fellow's jacket halfway through his mad dash.  Thunder rumbled through the ground.

"Why. Do. You. Trouble. The. Dead. And. Dying?"  Each word spoken matched a lashing whip-like strike of sinewy branches that threatened to snap both men in half.  The treant's voice struggled, wheezing after every swing.  A cloud of dry and blemished leaves filled the air all around them, marred by the blackness of some fungal blight eating away at the tree spirit's host like some form of fauna-based consumption.  

"Whoa!  Hey!  Easy there, Dippy!  No need to get all mean and thwompy!  I'm sure he meant no harm.  What say you lower your arms and we promise not to raise ours, eh?  Sounds a fair bit better than all of us going straight to hacking each other to pieces?"

The weeping willow missed the meaning behind the nickname, striking again in their direction, but slightly off.  Only then did Freyd notice the thick slurry paste, or maybe sap, encrusted around the sockets that looked to serve as its eyes.  A quick tap on the other man's should paired with a pointed index, drawing it to his attention.  The thing was blind?

"Liars!  All.  You.  Do.  Is.  Bring.  Death."  It shook its head, drizzling the clearing in rotten leaves once more.

With an outstretched palm, Freyd signaled that they might wish to pause, rather than jump to fight or flight.  Something wasn't right here, and definitely not at all what it had first seemed.

[Alkor 0]

Alkor was almost asleep, almost to the point where his dreams eclipsed reality.

When his eyes snapped open again, he wondered if this was a dream. 

Quote

"Watch out!"  

He stumbled forward onto his haunches as the tree- treant? - yes, it was clearly alive, and in a very foul mood as it raised out of the ground and lurched toward... someone. Alkor had no recognized the voice, nor had he seen anyone else or he wouldn't have tried to nap. His body moved forward on instinct, driven by the system and dragged along by the sudden manhandling that the other man gave his cloak. He rolled head over heels and up to his feet, and the impact barely missed him. Where he'd sat prone a moment before, cracks split the earth and the ground spasmed. The ripple effect shook him and split his attention between recovery and discerning the current situation.

He was on the back foot.

Quote

"Why. Do. You. Trouble. The. Dead. And. Dying?"

Quote

"Whoa!  Hey!  Easy there, Dippy!  No need to get all mean and thwompy!  I'm sure he meant no harm.  What say you lower your arms and we promise not to raise ours, eh?  Sounds a fair bit better than all of us going straight to hacking each other to pieces?"

Alkor groggily listened to the back and forth, jarring though it was. His brain was still cloudy from failed respite. He smacked his temple with a palm in vain attempt to rearrange his thoughts. The man who grabbed him by the cuff now prodded his shoulder, and his gaze followed the pointing finger to its conclusion. The creature looked for them, listening, but it did not seem to see anything. Upon reaching a nonverbal consensus that their assailant was, in fact, blind, Alkor glanced back to the man, down at his shoulder, then back up as if to say stop touching me.

Maybe he had something in common with their new friend. (Other than his sleep being interrupted.)

Quote

"Liars!  All.  You.  Do.  Is.  Bring.  Death."

He wasn't inclined to disagree with the ancient, though. In Aincrad, Players came and went, and their only recourse to move forward was to leave behind mountains of data harvested from the NPCs and mindless monsters that littered the path. With what should have been a murderous headache, Alkor was thankful that the system filtered out pain. He took a slow, measured step backward without drawing his blade. The other player seemed to have engaged in conversation with it, and an attempt to take up arms might compromise that. He took that opportunity to take a better look at their surroundings.

When left unmolested, nothing had seemed out of place. Now that the centerpiece of the graveyard took off its mask, the truth was much uglier. Rotted leaves and fungal growth, the smell of death without rebirth. Nature turned on itself and the cycle came to a halt. He'd seen this before, in an environment that went untended. Loamy soil stank as it festered, and leaves that piled high discouraged growth when no light was allowed to shine through. "This place," he said, clearly interjecting his thoughts rather than joining the conversation on one side or the other, "it doesn't get many visitors, does it?"

His voice was sullen, if still a bit groggy. He gestured toward the grave, though it would be lost on the treant. "Only the people who bring their memories of death," he guessed.

 

[Freyd 0]

"It's more than that, I'd wager."  Freyd hands slowly lowered to rest on the growing bed of moldy leaves accumulating from the balding tree-creature.  Feet crouched beneath him, he looked like an overwound coil ready to spring into an attack at the slightest hint of provocation, yet his movements were slow and deliberately disarming.  His voice, equally calm and level, sought to diffuse rather than antagonize.

"I assume you know the history of this floor" he whispered while the creature wrangled out its roots.  "Why would a treant possibly be watching over an elven graveyard?  Even more notably: why would the elves allow it?"

The tree-thing finished pulling itself free from the ground.  Thank goodness that there were no actual bodies here, or the stench might have overcome them.

"Is that what happened to you," Freyd asked the looming sentinel?  "Did someone or something break the balance and harmony of this place?"  It wasn't until this point that he noticed another marker stone in the hollow beneath the mob, identical to the rest save that it was shattered into multiple pieces and scorched by some some manner of fire or other similar effect.

"I swear to you, guardian, that I did not come here to defile, but only to show my respects.  I've seen the tragic cost of the war between your people and the elves firsthand.  The forests of this floor have suffered for it.  And, I'm guessing, so have you."

[Alkor 0]

Alkor continued to watch the Treat passively, still in a crouched position as Freyd ruminated over the scene. "You hadn't noticed?" he asked quietly. "They come here only to mourn." He reiterated the sentiment, only it had been rephrased into something less cryptic. "Ellesmera is the domain of the Elves, but they don't claim anything else. Life is their domain. Their culture keeps death separate. Sacrosanct." The blonde gestured idly toward the Treant, twisting his wrist slowly to indicate the space around them. "This place doesn't belong to just the Elves." He watched the blind guardian free itself from the ruined dirt and detritus fall away from its groaning, creaking form. 

Freyd's words were answered by a croaking, drawn out laughter. The Ancient coughed and choked on the dust and ashes accumulated in its maw. Its eyes moved, seeking the source of the voice, and it fixed its gaze in the direction of the two men. "What. Know. You. Of. Tragedy?" the behemoth lurched to and fro, its sightless gaze disapproving.  "Saw. You. The. Cost. Of. War..." its tendrils of wood undulated over the ground, writhing and fumbling across the myriad stones. They radiated in response to the touch. Alkor noted this strange phenomenon, then glanced back to the Treant.

"But. War. Wages. On."

Alkor frowned.  Was it going to attack? He stayed low, but prepared his body to respond quickly if an attack came. "Elf. Treant. It. Matters. Not. As. You. Said," it leaned forward, a fetid stench spewing forth with its breath. Alkor blinked rapidly several times, suppressing the urge to gag as his <<survival>> skill activated. "All. Things. Die."

"For all the reverence that they place on the souls of the departed, they have done nothing to stop souls from departing," Alkor intoned at last. "No matter how many times they learn, the lesson never sticks."

"Harmony. Never. Came." It answered Freyd at last. "No. Peace."

There was pain in the howl that followed those words. Alkor winced and took a step back unintentionally, harrowed by the utter anguish that had been unleashed. The sundered marker beneath the beast smoked, as if it had been ablaze. It was like a hen nesting her eggs, careful to keep the warmth close to them. The Treant hovered close over the monument, loathe to let the light fade. "Whatever power clung to that monument is fading away," he whispered, "it was trying to prevent the loss, and used its own body to stem the flow."

[Freyd 0]

"This place doesn't belong to just the Elves."

Freyd nodded in agreement at Alkor's summary.  The man's assessment was astute and confirmed that he was equally well informed.  Good.  That improved the odds of them solving whatever underlying mischief or mystery had triggered the recent change.

"No, you're right.  It doesn't.  But it's also been a rare place where both sides set aside their feud, and something has recently changed."  Watching and listening as the creature vented its pain, Freyd sympathized with it in a way that echoed the tragedy of those mobs afflicted by the Sundered Spire's curse.  What had first appeared to be a boon - the ability to recall past lives from before their latest respawn - turned into a nightmare of endlessly repeating defeats.  Some raged, directing their fury towards those they had been told were to blame.  Others wallowed in despair and consigned themselves to torture-filled existence.  Now, gazing on the treant and hearing its lament pour out like a cascade of endless flood waters, Freyd's usually cold and callous demeanor was actually touched by the thing's sorrow.

"No matter how many times they learn, the lesson never sticks."

"Are we any better?" They both knew the answer, but saying the words aloud somehow made them more poignant.

"Elder," Freyd said, addressing the mob with surprising reverence and respect, "There was a tradition among the peoples of my homeland, and while I'm no priest or mystic, its symbolism and intentions are fitting and may ease your suffering, if you will allow me to approach."

The tree-creature grumbled and growled, but knew that its time was waning and the fires of hope and memory would soon die if nothing was done.  Creeping back enough to offer access, its crusted-over, empty eyes glared at them, slightly off angle as it listened and felt their actions in absence of actual sight.  Rising slowly to his feet, Freyd crept forward to examine the stones, kneeling by their side and practically beneath the giant looming guardian. This could end badly for him if it suddenly preferred some vengeful turn of spite.

Glancing over them, the shattered shapes and numbers of the stones were suitable.  And the shimmering heat about them was real, which would prove useful, though it was fading fast.  A quick gesture summoned three salves which he promptly laid in dirt at his side, but the paste was meant for flesh and too soft and slick for this purpose.  Swinging his cowl from side to side, he seemed to be searching for something else.  Finally gazing up, he found what was required.

"Friend," he called, not yet having learned Alkor's name.  "I can use these salves as a mortar, but I need something ash-like to thicken them.  The calcified tears of a treant seem ideally suited, and the lingering flame should help to cure the compound.  I'll need several handfuls, if you could, and with the guardian's permission.  I mean to preserve this spirit as an Inuksuk, but time is very short."