Your Featherlands CYOA Journey ~ Chapter 5

Your muscles remain tense, pulsing as the tickles course through your limbs. The tickling traverses through your nerves as it consumes your being. As you feel more and more of your control slipping away, you know that every last part of you is not far behind, being devoured by the hungering root system. You laugh and squirm and fight to maintain your composure, though you know you don't have long.

"GAAAAAHAHHAHAHAHAHAHAAAAA!! STAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAAA!!!" You shriek. Your voice echoes slightly, dampened by the surrounding dirt tunnels. The roots attack your most sensitive spots. They trace along your helpless, quivering pits. They cover your belly and sides in feathery strokes. They feast on the ticklish nerves buried throughout your sole. The thicker roots hold you steady. You can do little more than tremble against their hold. Your body sweats and twitches in place. Your head falls back as you can do little more than bellow helpless laughter. More roots approach to further your torment. You know the more roots that bind you in place, the harder it will be for you to escape, and the more likely it will be for you to end up right there, feeding the Featherland shrubs with your laughter, for a long, long time.

"Look at the pitiful human," Oran says, the orb still balanced in his hand. He chuckles and smirks, amused by your tortured display. "I've always wanted to see a human being properly tickled. This is their natural state after all."

"I can tell," Pheron says, watching with an entertained grin. She flips her hair out of her face, her eyes glimmering as she observes. You can barely make out much beyond your teary stare. Once you're fully consumed by the plants, you won't be able to see to know much of anything. That's the extreme where your mind goes, however. You know you have one shot to make a daring move, an attempt to free yourself before it's all over. You recall back to the spells that you read about. You can hardly concentrate, but you manage to pull all of your focus into one. One spell. One clutching attempt to force concentration on summoning the magic that Tia has been teaching you. You manage to stifle your laughter for only a moment. You put all of your hopes and focus and willpower into summoning just one spell.

You scream. A tingling spark crackles between your fingers. You feel the magic coursing through your body overtake the tickles. You clench your eyes shut as you pull all of your energy, committing to the spell Manic Spark. Your hand trembles. You feel all of the magic being siphoned in its direction. It shakes as you manage to point your fingers outward. Your hand gestures toward Pheron, the easiest target from where you're held captive. This is it. You feel how the spell would leave you drained and vulnerable and maybe even more sensitive to the tickles gushing through you. You have one shot. You continue to scream louder and louder, the magic surging through your body. Oran and Pheron take a step back, their expressions twisted with confusion.

"Wh-what… what's happening?" Oran asks. Pheron says nothing. With your hand pointed at her, a violent surge of bright blue arches channels out of your hand and into her body. She gets knocked a step back. Immediately, the spell begins to take effect. Pheron emits a burst of light, fluttery giggles that quickly get louder and more intense. She clenches up, her hands hugging herself as she twists side to side. The shocks branch out all over her body, tickling like viciously scribbling fingers wherever they reach.

"Gaaaaaahhhhhhhahahahahahahehehehah!!!" The Fealth girl squeals at a pitch much higher than her speaking voice. The tickles quickly encompass her entire body. They reach every nerve from her ears down to her toes. The tickles come in random and maddening waves. She buckles over. Pheron twists in place, squealing and shrieking in front of you.

"What is this?!" Oran asks. You keep your focus on the spell as much as you can. The tickles from the roots continue to scribble and scratch at your body. More tendril roots start to touch you all over. You know you can't keep the concentration going for much longer, but you hope that maybe something might come from the efforts. Oran takes a step closer to Pheron. He reaches a hand out to try and help her compose herself. "Gorana!"

"Shaaahahah!!! Theeehehehe humaaahahahahaan!!" The girl squeals with laughter. The tickling shocks send waves all over her figure. They bury into her pits and remain digging into her navel. They envelop all of her toes inside of her boots. Her legs start to buckle. She starts to topple over into Oran, sending a powerful hand to grasp onto his arm. The massive thrust shoves Oran against a dirt wall, knocking the orb out of his hand. It falls to the stone floor and shatters into a defeated dust of released magic.

"No!" Oran shouts. Steadily, the roots begin to grow still. Not entirely, they still manage to lightly scratch against your body, but the ones holding you in place loosen their grips. Heaving deep breaths, you slip free from the wooden tendrils. You stumble forward, the electric effects of the spell vanishing from your fingertips. Pheron looks up from the ground. Oran stares in bewilderment down at the broken orb. "The gods, father's going to…"

"I… I…" You struggle to catch your breath. Free from the tendrils, you wipe your head and lean against a wall. Oran's lip quivers. His mouth twists into a snarl, his eyes narrowing back at you.

"Worthless human!" Oran yells. You wheeze and look away, still struggling to catch your breath. Oran raises a hand and points a finger in your direction. "This was your fault! You destroyed it and I will tell everyone how all humans like you only bring ruin where you go!"

"Okay, you… you need to calm…" you try to say.

"You gutless beast!" Oran continues to berate. "You will pay for what you did here today." His fingertip, still aimed at you, starts to glow. He grits his teeth, the light flowing from his finger starting to illuminate further up his arm. In your wilted exhaustion, you try to brace yourself. As Pheron gets to her feet, Oran steps forward again. Before he can fire the spell stirring in his hand, another blinding light bursts through the hallway. The tunnel rumbles and rains dirt down upon you. Oran gets sent flying through the corridor. He lands hard on his shoulder and lets out a whimpering grunt.

"Oran!" Phreon shouts. She runs to his side and kneels to examine him. You rub your eyes before looking in the direction of the strange blast.

"Get away from the human," Tiamalla says firmly. She steps forward with her wand drawn, her eyes harsh and thin. She stands firmly in between you and the other two.

"Ugh, the tutor's ward," Oran groans. He dusts himself off as Pheron helps him to his feet. "Not too busy sucking up to the counsel?"

"Stay away," Tiamalla says slowly and sternly. The tip of her wand glows with a shimmering shade of blue magic. Pheron helps Oran rise. The elven boy brushes her off, sneering back at you and Tia.

"Your mongrel broke a priceless flora conduit," Oran says. "And I'll see that you both pay."

"You were tormenting them," Tia says. "And I don't care what kind of hate your harbor for them or what it cost you, you are entirely at fault. You will stay away and if I catch you interfering with them again, I will inform the council of your deeds and you will face sentencing to the Maw, at best. Exile at worst." Oran's lips curl into a grimace. He puffs out a slight huff and turns his head.

"As if anyone on the council would dare pose such a threat against me," Oran says. "Mother and father would never allow it."

"Mommy and daddy won't be mad?" You ask with a smirk. Tia looks back at you curiously. Oran crosses his arms.

"I am not concerned with learning your simple, human idioms," Oran says.

"You will stay away," Tiamalla says again. Oran pauses. Pheron steps forward, glaring down at Tiamalla with her massive arms crossed.

"And you will not threaten him," Pheron says. Tiamalla looks up to her, standing at a significant height advantage, without flinching.

"As you've seen, I do not threaten," Tiamalla says. Pheron huffs. Her eyes shift between you and Tia.

“Keep your pet to yourself,” Pheron says, cautiously backing away toward Oran. The boy huffs.

“I’ll see to it that the whole tribe knows how you assaulted me to protect this vermin,” Oran says. “You’ll both be in the Maw by morning. The ward, a traitor to her own kind.”

“Yeesh, this guy,” you comment. Oran glares at you.

“You’d do best to leave this place, to stop dirtying my sight with your disgusting human presence,” Oran says.

“Just stay away,” Tiamalla replies. “And we’ll all be good.”

“I’ll be ‘good’ when the Featherlands never get cursed with another human again,” Oran says. “Until then, I’m only doing my duties to rid the land of the parasites that are their kind.”

“Just go,” Tiamalla exhaled. “Stop listening to yourself talk. No one wants to hear it.”

“And no one disrespects the Oran the Noble,” Pheron says sternly. Oran groans.

“It’s whatever,” he says. “Come, Gorana. Let us not waste more of our time with these dregs.” Oran pushes his way through you and Tiamalla with Pheron following closely behind, making sure neither you nor the mage attempt to offend him further. The pair leave the subterranean dwellings as the light dims from the tip of Tia’s wand.

“I am so sorry, are you okay?” she asks, frantically inspecting your body. You sigh and rub your head a little.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” you say.

“I am so sorry for Oran,” Tia says begrudgingly. “He’s always been difficult to outsiders.”

“No, no, he seems lovely,” you say. You look back at Tiamalla, gauging the comprehension of sarcasm in her expression.

“You think so?” she asks. You chuckle and shake your head.

“Ha, no, it was… nothing,” you say. “Just a joke. He was a real… do you know what a ‘jerk’ is?”

“No,” Tiamalla says, ducting dirt off of your clothes. “Is that bad?”

“Relatively tame compared to most words I could use, but yeah,” you say. Tiamalla huffs and nods.

“Then, yes, Oran is a jerk,” she says firmly, saying the word as if for the first time. “He’s a jerk and I’m so sorry that you had to deal with him.”

“No problem,” you say. “It’s not your fault. I was just glad that you came back when you did.”

“We’re not all like that, I promise,” Tia says.

“No, I know,” you say. “Believe me, I don’t remember much, but I know that there are plenty of ‘Oran’s back where I come from.”

“That sounds awful,” Tia says sadly.

“It’s okay, you just have to ignore them,” you say. “And know that not everyone there is like that either. Some of them are very special and kind and pretty amazing.” Tiamalla smiles.

“Sounds like you’re one of those then,” she says.

“I don’t know about that.”

“Here, we call those like that parasent,” Tiamalla says. “Those that come to bring good things like gifts and protection and love.” You sigh into a light chuckle.

“And you think that’s what I am?” you ask. Tiamalla blinks. She turns away, taking your hand and leading you out of the tunnel.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Tiamalla asks. “I can take you back to the apothecary.”

“I’m fine,” you say, waving your hand. “Just a little shook up, but I’m okay.” Tiamalla leads you out of the tunnels beneath the ground back into the open, elven interiors that you’re somewhat familiar with. Tia brings you back outside, into the open air of the courtyard. She hurries you along, keeping a keen eye out for anyone else that might cause trouble.

“I’m still really sorry that this happened,” Tia says, her expression twisted as thoughts plague her mind.

“It’s okay, really,” you say. “I guess humans really aren’t liked well here.”

“No, no, they are!” Tia says urgently. “Please, you mustn’t allow Oran and those like him to skew your perception…” Tiamalla went quiet, her tone cutting short.

“But…?” you ask. Tiamalla’s ears slump a little. She sighs and looks away, still leading you across the courtyard with purpose.

“There are some that see humans as a threat,” she says quietly. “It isn’t many, I assure you, but humans do tend to come by in times of great turmoil, so the presence of humans tends to make many on edge, for better or for worse.”

“How so?”

“Well, some see humans as strange and interesting creatures to study or even befriend,” Tiamalla says. “Others see humans as ‘outsiders’ who only come to bring ruin, given that the instances that have brought humans here have, indeed, brought times of great stress. Like a bad omen. And some, like Oran, look down on most everyone that isn’t a part of his specific bloodline. So, it’s not just elves, you’ll find individuals like that all over the Featherlands. It’s a real shame.”

“Well, I feel safe around you at least,” you say. “Bring on whatever… great turmoils…” You pause. Your mind turns over, churning with a raging ache still lingering from the mad tickling. “But if it’s only when humans appear, do we know why I just happened to show up yet?”

“We don’t know yet,” Tiamalla says. “That’s why I went to visit the council, to see if they had any insight over the newest human appearance.”

“And they didn’t?”

“Not quite,” Tia says. “But they did consult with the captain of the guard to begin your field training.”

“Field training?”

“And just in time too,” Tia says with a smile. She leads you into the bustling square of the village. Elves and other Featherland creatures survey a vast array of shops and merchants stationed around various tents and tree carvings. “I was concerned with them starting you off so early into your studies, but I witnessed you summon the Manic Spark! I have to say, I am very impressed with how well you’ve accumulated your senses to Featherland magic. I know it can’t be easy for a human. It’s certainly not easy for a Featherlander, let alone someone not attuned to magic at all.” You grin and chuckle.

“Heh, yeah, I… I didn’t really know what I was doing,” you say. “I just knew that I had to do something.”

“It’s those moments of intense urgency that ignite the most potent of magical senses,” Tiamalla says. “You were able to access them far better than I anticipated this early. Now we just need to work on your channeling.” The village square grows loud with murmuring and the distant echoes of ambient laughter. You look around curiously at the elven commune’s lively center.

“My channeling?”

“Correct,” Tiamalla says. “That’s why we’re off to see the Grand Mystic.”

“Oh, sounds important,” you say.

“Harrond, the Grand Mystic, is the greatest mage in the village,” Tiamalla says. “He teaches most of the primary arcane schools and practices being a clairvoyant.”

“Oh okay,” you say, following along. “Is that why we’re going? Does he know why I’m supposed to be here?”

“No, we need to get you a wand,” Tiamalla says. She leads you past many shops with bustling exteriors. Elven merchants sell strange and exotic fruits and vegetables from their carts. More sell books while others sell toys to younger Featherlanders of all specieses. Several clusters of elves stand around just chatting, some holding very small young while others push carts to and from massive caravans. Everyone appears to wear a smile, most not even recognizing that there’s a human amongst them. It all seems carefree and relaxing, giving off an odd, almost undeserving sense of tranquility. You smile. Despite them all being strangers, you’re left happy to see everyone living so peacefully among themselves.

Tiamalla leads you to what appears to be a small mound of blankets. Cloths and rags lay on top of one another off of the regular roads that cut through the commune. She waves you closer as she grabs a hold of one of the clothes lining the front. She pulls it back to reveal an opening. The pile is hollow and only serves as a front for something mysteriously tucked away inside. You follow Tiamalla in. You’re met with a strong scent of crushed herbs, pungent and almost bitter. You grimace a little, but stifle it for Tia. The inside of the mound is dark, only illuminated by small jars of stirring, bioluminescent insects lining shelves around a small table in the center. At the table, an older elf sits in front of an open book. He doesn’t appear to be moving. His eyes are closed, his hunched, frail body sitting remarkably still. You place a hand on Tiamalla’s shoulder to stop her. You lean in and whisper.

“Are you… are you sure we’re not… you know, intruding?” you ask.

“If I didn’t want you, or the lovely Tiamalla here to come see me, you would not be here right now, human,” the elderly elf says wearily and slowly. His wrinkled lips move beneath a bed of light purple facial hair, but the rest of him remains still. You recoil. Tiamalla looks back at you with a smirk.

“He knew we’d be coming,” Tia says. You open your mouth to speak, but the older elf cuts you off.

“Because I did,” Harrond says. You blink. You retract slightly, your words caught in your throat. Harrond grins and looks up. His eyes glisten with a flint of life. “My word, it is you. The human.”

“Um, y-yes sir,” you say. You bow your head a little, following Tiamalla doing the same.

“It’s always a pleasure, Grand Mystic,” she says sweetly. “Thank you for having us today.”

“I’ve been preparing for the day that I’d meet another human,” he says, remaining sitting atop a flattened pillow. His body is covered with colorful rags and flower petals. His hair, long and thin, coursed down his spine, held in a tail by more pieces of cloth. He raised one shaky hand and placed it on top of the book in front of him. You look cautiously over to Tiamalla.

“Um, c-can I… just…?”

“Speak,” she says quietly. “You’re his guest.”

“Right,” you say. You turn back to the elder elf and clear your throat. “Um, th-thank you for meeting with us today, sir.”

“My child, it is a joy to have humans here again,” he says. His head wavers a little in place, held up by a sickly thin neck. His voice is kind, yet soft and weary.

“Right, well, we’re here for a… uh…”

“We need a wand,” Tiamalla says. “This one has advanced their skills in magic beyond expectations and we are in need of a proper channel.”

“Right, the one with the Manic Spark,” Harrond says wearily. You pause and study the man’s withered expression.

“You know?” you ask. Harrond coughs out a tired wheezing laugh.

“My child, I know all,” he says. Tiamalla shrugs.

“Well, not all,” she says. “A lot, for sure, but-”

“Don’t sass on me, sprout,” Harrond says. Tiamalla giggles. You laugh along with her. Harrond turns back to you. “Little Tia’s a handful, isn’t she?”

“She sure is something,” you say.

“Again with ‘little Tia’,” Tiamalla grumbles beneath her breath.

“Why I remember little Tia when she was no taller than my snickerberry patch,” Harrond says. “Last week, I think it was.” Harrond coughs out another groaning rhythm of laughter. Tiamalla sighs and rolls her eyes.

“She’s certainly been a big help,” you add. Tiamalla turns to you and smiles.

“Aye, that she is,” Harrond says. “A wonderful little student, she’s been too. You’ve chosen right to have her showing you around, human.”

“I can tell,” you say. “It’s been a treat getting to know her and the commune.” Tia remains silent as a warm hue comes to her cheeks and ears. Harrond huffs out more laughter, waving his hand in the air.

“The right thing to say,” Harrond answers. “You may have some clairvoyant in you yet. Aye, but not yet. No, no, mastered the Manic Spark, have we?”

“Well, I don’t know about ‘mastered’,” you say. “I managed to do it once, whatever that gets me.”

“That’s still quite the feat,” Harrond says. He groans as he struggles to push himself to his feet. His arms and legs shake under his own weight. Tiamalla steps forward to help him.

“Elder, you mustn’t,” she says.

“Aye, I can still do anything you chattering sprouts can,” he says, pushing her away. “It’s not everyday we get a human in here, let a elder shake his hips a little.” Tia sighs. She steps back, painfully watching Harrond groan as he struggles to walk. He turns and slowly makes his way over to the wall behind him. It’s covered with dozens of small box inserts like cubbies. Inside each are rolled up pieces of cloth or parchment. Through a thick grove of eyebrow hair, the elder elf scans over each with one extended, shaky finger. “Now then…”

Harrond stops at one cubby easily within reach. He pulls out a brown cloth, rolled up like a tube. He holds it in both hands, his grasp trembling as he makes his way back over to the table. Once he makes it, he lays the cloth down and unravels it carefully.

“The human still has a long way to go,” Harrond says. “Featherland magic is rarely compatible with their kind. When it happens, however, it can mean great or terrible things for all.” You swallow, soaking in every stoic word.

“I assure you, I’m not here to harm anyone,” you say. Harrond continued, unfazed.

“Yes, well, they’ve all said something to that effect,” he says. “But I’m inclined to trust you, human. I truly believe in the righteous will of your kind.”

“He wouldn’t be helping you if he saw bad things from you being here,” Tiamalla adds.

“Right, about that,” you say, turning back to Harrond. “Do you know why it is I’m here?”

“Why?”

“What purpose do I have for being here?” you ask. “I’ve been told that humans that appear are here for a reason. Or maybe, do you know what, or who, brought me here? Maybe they know.”

“Can we get through the wand thing first?” Harrond asks blankly. “I get you have questions, human, but gods, just give me a second to breathe first.” You swallow. You nod and take a step back.

“Right, sorry,” you say. Harrond unravels all of the cloth, revealing a wand sitting in the middle of the uncloaked bundle. It rests at about a foot in length and appears to be made of dark wood with ornate carvings lining the thicker side. Harrond grunts as he collapses back down onto his pillow.

“Right, well, let me tell you about what I have for you,” he says. “Humans that have mastered Featherland magic have done so with great connection to amberwood wands. The wood is most similar to that commonly found in their world, and thus it gives them a stronger connection from which to channel the emotions needed to summon most basic spells. Amberwood is sturdy and doesn’t break easily, but it is scarce and difficult to replace. That can be shattered by misused spells. Most don’t survive the introductory periods of new students learning how to use magic for the first time.”

“That shouldn’t be a problem,” Tiamalla interjects. “They’ve already come farther than the usual student.”

“You’re putting a lot of stock into my ability to do this when I’ve only ever done one spell,” you say to Tia. She shrugs and shoots you a smirk.

“I can mend wands, if need be,” she says. “You’ll be fine.”  

“What helps is to supplement wand channeling with hand channeling until you get the hang of it,” Harrond says. He reaches up under the table and pulls out a small bag. From it, he produces a pair of leather cuffs attached by what appears to be some kind of harness. He lays it on the table next to the wand.

“Oh right, a wand brace,” Tia says.

“What’s that?”

“I’ll show you,” Tia says with a smile. She picks up the tangle of attached leather straps and begins fastening it to your arm. One cuff hooks around your wrist while the other latches onto the same forearm just below the crook of your elbow. She tightens it snuggly. “It lets you wield your wand without having to hold it, freeing your hand and giving you additional support when channeling spells.”

“Oh okay,” you say. Harrond pushes the cloth with the wand sitting on top closer to you.

“Take it,” he says. You pause and stare back at him.

“Are… are you sure?” you ask. Harrond snickers tiredly.

“I crafted this wand specifically for you, my child,” he says. “You don’t want to hurt an elder’s feelings do you?” You chuckle and shake your head.

“Heh, no, I don’t,” you say. You reach down and lay your fingers against the wooden hilt of the wand. You lift it to discover it being far more light in your hand than you had anticipated. “Oh wow.” Magic embedded within crackles into your fingertips. You swing it through the air with light, flowing motions that feel more like the wand itself is guiding your hand. The joy felt surrounding the Featherlands seems through into your touch. The laughter, the mirth, the happiness, the worryless glee that accompanies every sugary sweet breeze and tender warmth against your cheek all flows from the wand into your hand. You find yourself speechlessly staring down at it, letting the waves of elation wash over you.

“Feels right, doesn’t it, my child?” Harrond asks. You nod silently, gathering yourself again before speaking.

“Th-thanks, I…” you start to say. “Thank you so much.” Harrond nods.

“A human needs more protection out there than anyone,” he says in a dim tone. “I don’t know what you think you know of the Featherlands, child, but it is not all sweetness and kind tickles. There are many places those with sense do not tread, lest they desire to be lost to unimaginable torments forever.”

“So I’ve heard,” you say. “But now, I need to know why I’m here. Please, can you tell me what you know?” Harrond pauses. He sighs and nods slowly, long, bony fingers tapping against the table.

“I suppose you’re entitled to the truth,” he says with a heavy breath. “Unfortunately, I do not have all the answers which you seek.”

“You must know something,” you say.

“Aye, I… I will tell you what I know,” Harrond says. He sits back and flips a page in the open book. “There are many chapters that lay ahead of you, most of which have yet to be written. There are many details left shrouded from even my eyes, many decisions that can and will change the course of your journey. But I can tell you that the assumptions of your arrival are true. That you are not here by accident, my child. You are here to fulfill a purpose, a destiny, as it were. A grand adventure lies before you, one that very well may determine the fate of the Featherlands as we know it.”

“Wow,” you say, stunned.

“Many humans have come and changed our world,” he continues. “Some for the better. Some for the worst. The girl who came to assume her given role as queen. The boy who traversed the Badlands to unleash a terrible ploy upon your world. A great storm is coming to our world and the road you walk has many branches, my child. While I may not hold the map you seek, I trust in your power to protect and save.” Harrond lowers his hand. He huffs out a hard breath, puffing out his facial hair. You hold the wand firmly in your hand and bow.

“Thank you, sir,” you say. “I guess, whatever it is that I’m supposed to do here, I promise to do my best.”

“Aye,” Harrond says. He raises a hand toward Tiamalla. “Just keep the best there by your side, child, and you’ll do fine.” Tiamalla smirks and lowers her head.

“Thank you, Great Mystic Harrond,” she says. “We have our first assignment now. We’re off to gather intel.”

“Whatever bunny run the council has two going on, I’ll be rooting for you,” Harrond says with another coughing chuckle. “Now get out of here. You’re scaring off customers.”

Once outside again, Tiamalla leads you back through the market district and toward the library. You follow closely behind, examining the wand and attaching it to the brace on your arm. It rests on top of your forearm, pointing out in the direction of your hand. You wave it around slightly as you get used to the feeling of the attached brace. Tiamalla occasionally glances over, smiling sweetly to herself.

“You like it?” she asks.

“Are you kidding, this is awesome!” you say. “Seriously. Like, so much of what I’ve seen here is pretty cool, but actual magic is beyond anything that I’m used to. We tell stories of magic all the time back in my world. It’s this fantasy thing that never actually happens. Seriously, this is just so cool.” Tiamalla giggles. She strokes her hair a little and presses forward.

“Well, I’m glad that you like it,” she says.

“I’m still getting used to all of this, but wow,” you say.

“We’re just happy to have you here,” Tiamalla adds. “Excited, too, about going on your first outing?”

“I guess, so what is that, actually?” you ask. “Where are we going?”

“We’re going to see the captain of the guard,” Tiamalla says. “We’re doing field training on an actual assignment today.”

“An assignment to do what?”

“I do not know yet,” Tiamalla says. “We’ll find out together.”

Colorful birds caw and race through the treetops above. Natural light bakes the forest floor in warm, blushing waves. You put the hood up on your robe as you cross back onto the commune center grounds. Your eyes dart to the others that share the land, walking and chatting in tightly knit clusters. Friends laugh with one another. They engage each other in chase and tickle games. Younger elves run around the grounds, laughing and giggling through games of ‘tickle tag’. Older friends pinch at each other’s sides to show affection. Laughter flows as freely as the wind. Through it all, you smile. You avoid being detected as the strange human come to enact some kind of grand plan, be it for better or worse, and simply observe the happiness that comes so naturally around you.

Your silent glee, watching the other elves enjoy themselves, is not without a thick twist of guilt. You look at Tiamalla walking you through the compound, taking care of your every need. She doesn’t seem to interact with anyone. All of her attention has seemed to be pulled to you. When you got in trouble with Oran and Pheron earlier that day, it was her that faced them down coming to save you. Happiness courses through the commune like shining petals in the breeze, yet none seem to grace by Tia’s path. A heavy sigh escapes your lips. As Tia brings you deeper into the lodging compound, you open your mouth to speak.

“Hey, Tia,” you say. Tia briefly looks to her side to meet your eye.

“Yes?” she asks. Her eyes are wide and deeply colorful. They glitter even in the absence of direct light. A clean, smooth complexion leads into the warm pink slits of her lips. You pause to gather your thoughts for a moment before smiling back at her.

“Nothing, just…” you start to say, “thank you for everything.”

“My pleasure!” Tia says cheerfully.

The small elf girl leads you inside the main hall at the courtyard. There, she takes you down one long hallway after another, branching toward the opposite direction from the library. You see more elves in what appear to be combat armor. You can see shields and spears hanging on the wall, battle worn and serving as decoration. Bows and quivers hang next to pieces of armor commemorated with wooden inscriptions dedicated to the proud elven warriors who bore them. You try to read the plaques passively as you walk beside Tia.

“You guys have a lot of, uh, conflict around here?” you ask.

“Not ‘a lot’, thankfully,” she says. “But it’s always in our best interest to be prepared. That’s what the captain says anyway.”

“And who is this captain?”

“Captain Lynn Guffwood,” Tiamalla says. “She leads the guard, the defensive line should anything come around trying to cause problems.”

“And she has an assignment for us?” you ask. “What’s the problem?”

“Oh, probably nothing,” Tiamalla says. “It’s field work, after all. Most of the time, it’s just to gather information about the outer rim of the forest to make sure that all is well. Usually all is well.”

“Usually?”

“Well, you never want to use extremes,” Tiamalla says. “But it was us scouts that came across you.”

“Is that what you are then?” you ask. “A scout?”

“You might be one too, soon,” Tia says. She leads you to a pair of double doors, carved with ridged designs and fortified with iron supports. You help her push the doors open and walk into the room.

“Hey hey, it’s the human!” you hear a familiar voice call out. You look into the room to see Eritrius standing up with his arms out. His smile beams back at you. He stands next to a large, round table in the center of the room. The room itself is not large, lit with a few openings for natural light to seep through and caged torches. The walls are lined with metal racks that hold various swords, shields, and articles of armor. You smile and wave back at Eritrius.

“Hey, good to see you,” you say. You turn away when your attention gets caught by another familiar voice coming at you from the other side.

“Nice robe,” Dynacia says, walking up to you. Her sheath taps against her leg as she walks. “And the wand brace really completes the look.”

“Hehe, thanks,” you say.

“Little Tia’s not bored your ear off with history lessons by now?” Dynacia asks. Tiamalla rolls her eyes a bit.

“She’s actually been really sweet and helpful,” you say. “And for what it’s worth, I happen to love her history lessons. I think it’s very cool the things she tells me about.” Dynacia laughs.

“Alright, if you say so,” she says.

“Statistically, someone has to like all that, right?” Eritrius adds.

“You’re just jealous that they picked me,” Tiamalla says. Eri shrugs while Dynacia starts to walk away.

“Eh, you’re probably right,” she says. You notice another figure in the room with you all. Another elf woman, one that stands much taller than any other you had seen so far, stands observing the conversations fluttering around you. Long, red locks hang down from her darkened ears. The shapes of her nose and eyes are sharp and razor-like. She wears smokey gray armor with a longsword slung across her back. She stands with an attentive firmness, a build similar in structure to that of Pheron, but larger with her age. Her stare locks onto you as the others begin to take notice. Tiamalla steps forward and bows.

“Captain, allow me to introduce the human, Alex,” Tiamalla says. She turns to you. “And this is Captain Lynn Guffwood, commander of the scouts and the guard.” You nod before bowing.

“Um, C-Captain,” you say, still fumbling with formalities. “It’s an honor.”

“Stand, human,” Lynn says. You stand up and prepare yourself for another rough berating. “You are here because the council has informed me of your arrival and how beneficial it would be for us all for you to have proper training. I am to understand that you have been studying alongside Tiamalla in the arcane arts.” She stops to leave you in a pause of contemplating whether or not that is supposed to be a question for you to answer. You scratch at the side of your face.

“U-uh, y-yes, miss,” you say.

“Good,” Lynn says. “Tiamalla is one of the best practitioners of magic in this, or any, elf commune around.”

“Thank you,” Tia says. “They’ve also made great strides. They were able to summon an effective channeling of Manic Spark earlier today!”

“Hm, is that so?” Lynn asks. “And I see that they have the necessary tools needed to continue this training which makes mine, and the council’s, decision to begin your field training now much more sustainable. Human Alex, are you ready to venture out into the wilds of the Featherlands?”

“Yes, miss,” you say sternly. “I know I still have a lot to learn, but I can handle anything.” Lynn nods in your direction, her eyes dark and turned away from you.

“Your enthusiasm is noted,” she says. “Let us hope that it is simply not misplaced human arrogance.”  Tiamalla lowers her head again. She shakes it and speaks softly to herself.

“Didn’t have to say it like that…” she says.

“What’s that, mage?” Lynn asks loudly. Tia looks up again, standing up straight.

“Nothing, Captain,” she says. “Please continue.” Lynn lingers in a silence. She huffs out of her nose and steps forward, closer to the table. She leans over it, addressing the several concentrations of effects laid out across the surface.

“Badland Trolls have been seen patrolling the perimeter of the Giggling Groves,” Lynn says, gesturing toward a map on the table. It lays out a forestry area. The language in which it is written is nothing that you can read, but you vaguely recognize the sounds that Tia has made when speaking elvish. You assume the test across the large, green shape reads ‘Giggling Groves’.

“Do we know for certain that they’re not just passing by?” Eritrius asks.

“No, but there have been more reports of wanderers going missing out by the mountainous side,” Lynn says. “Coupled with wild fits of laughter long into the night.”

“Trolls?” you ask. Lynn looks your way.

“Trolls are nasty beings,” she says frankly. “They’re conniving, dirty, and will mislead you right into their lair to be tortured and bartered, most prolific in the slave trade.”

“Oh wow,” you say.

“Yeah, elves get picked on a lot due to the consensus of, um, naivety,” Dynacia says. She looks to Tiamalla, who bows her head slightly.

“That’s awful,” you say.

“Yes, well, that’s just one issue,” Lynn says. “For the other, more and more harpies have been seen flying overhead.”

“What does that mean?” Dynacia asks.

“More patrol?” Eritrius asks. “Recon?”

“Could be,” Lynn says. “Could be nothing. But the harps will take any opportunity to swoop out elven young playing too deep in the forest.”

“They go after… children?” you ask.

“They pick on the weak and unassuming, bunch of cowards,” Lynn says, gesturing to the northern side of the map. “There have been more missing over the last few weeks. It’s not outlandish to assume that harps are responsible.”

“What do they do?” you ask quietly. "Like, what do they use the children for."

“Entertainment and nourishment, mostly,” Dynacia says, crossing her arms. “Harpies will find unsuspecting young and then bring them back to their nests as live-in tickle targets for their own young.”

“Oh, l-like food,” you say, remembering the dread of what Oran told you about Featherland nourishment.

“Something like that,” Tiamalla says. “Tickling restores life energy and is often a supplement for food. The problem is that many of the less reputable tribes tend to exploit that against the wishes of others, their tickle mates.”

“I see,” you say.

“And often that means hunting and we cannot allow our citizens to live under the fear that they’re not protected,” Lynn says.

“Right!” Eritrius says. Lynn leans over the table and sighs heavily.

“But there’s still one more issue to address,” she says. She points to the southeastern area of the map, by blue wavy lines that you conclude to be a watery region. “Similarly, we’ve been losing fishermen and water bearers too. Out by the Sparkling Basin, there have been several reports of fishermen not returning. Water pots are found along the trail, most across the shore itself.” A hush falls over the room.

“What are you thinking?” Dynacia asks. “Sirens.” Lynn looks her way.

“There have been claw marks in the sand and an abnormal amount of scales washing up downstream,” she says. “If there’s any other explanation, I don’t know what it is.”

“Sirens?” you ask. The room seems to focus on you.

“They hunt by luring souls with temptations and falsehoods,” Tiamalla says.

“Most are shapeshifters too,” Lynn says. “The council has since issued a heavy restriction on the area, hoping that we can just starve them out while we look, but they’re getting craftier. We can’t risk being passive on this either.”

“Understood,” Dynacia says. Lynn stands up straight. She puts her hands on her hips, her eyes darting up at you and Tia.

“Those are the missions,” Lynn says. “Gather intel. Do not engage anything. Defend yourselves if necessary, but provoke nothing.”

“Got it,” Eritrius says. “So, what, we all knock these out one at a time?”

“If this was an advancement, perhaps, but it is reconnaissance and nothing more,” Lynn says. “What is vital is that you gather the information and come back here as quickly as possible. As such, you’ll be splitting up.” The group all nods silently. Dynacia rubs her hand across the hilt of her sword. Eritrius shifts in place.

“Very well,” Tiamalla says. “Who will be going on which mission?”

“With you doing field training with the human, I will let you decide, Tia,” Lynn says. Tia blinks. She pauses and thinks for a bit, the decision blindsighting her and weighing on her mind. The whole room falls silent, awaiting her decision. Eventually, she turns to you. Her wide, youthful eyes stare up at you with worry and wonder. She swallows and speaks up.

"Wh-what do you think we should do?" Tia asks. You chuckle a little.

"Hey, I'm just following you," you say. "You know more about this than I do." Tia takes a moment to gather her nerves.

"Trolls have been spotted in the West and we believe that they're kidnapping wanderers from the commune to collect as tickle slaves," Tia says. "Harpies have been seen circling above and could be preparing to take elven young from deep in the forest to keep as tickle pets. The shores of the Sparkling Basin could be the site of more vanishings from an approaching Siren tribe, who kidnap and charm their victims into being permanent tickle mates. It's all of the utmost importance."

"And whatever you don't choose, you know Dyna and I have you covered," Eritrius says. You pause and wait for Tiamalla to make a decision, but the longer you wait, the more obvious it becomes that she wants you to choose. You smile and sigh a defeated huff.

"Alright, fine," you say. "Then of those three…"


Which mission will you accept?