Argrave turned his head to Onychinusa, placing both of his hands upon his hips. She looked up at him, perhaps already knowing what it was he was going to ask.
“Would you be willing to help them?”
The unwrinkled hag looked bitter, and her hands fidgeted as she grappled with the idea. Eventually, Onychinusa’s voice came with resignation, “The Lord sent me to help you.”
Argrave wasn’t fully pleased with that answer, but it was acceptable. He looked back up to the dryads. Instead of just their faces peeking beyond the roots, some of them had emerged fully, sitting on roots and playing childish games with each other. They wore dresses and tiaras of interlocked leaves. The green-skinned creatures seemed to be princesses of the woods. Seeing them conjured memories of Drezki the Coward, Silvic’s servant in the wetlands.
“My friend here can help you if you want her help,” Argrave declared.
The dryads stopped playing, and some of them cheered upon hearing that. The voices came so quickly it was difficult to distinguish them.
“However, if you want her help... she wants you to give some, not all, of your mist to these little guys.” Argrave picked up one of the Brumesingers by the scruff of its neck and raised it up into the air. “Can that be done?”
The place grew still, and the dryads whispered between each other. Finally, one of them descended to the ground, while others came to stand beside Onychinusa, trying to hold her hand.
“Not our choice. Mommy has the mist. We borrow it. But mommy likes us. We can try and persuade!” the dryad promised innocently.
“If it helps, you can tell your mother that we’re going to get rid of the mandragora.” He paused. “Actually, I’d like to tell her myself, once the task is done.”
“The mandragora? It’ll die? But what about its friends? The big squirmy things that eat everything are trying to get married to it!”
Argrave narrowed his eyes, thinking. Squirmy things... she must be talking about the Yateveos. I was wondering why I’d seen none of them. Perhaps they came here after the disturbance of the roots.
“I can get rid of them. But you have to be extra positive when you talk to your mommy,” he said, pointing his finger.
“Okay!” the dryad answered, then looked back. “Old lady, come outside! Big bastard gave you to us.”
Argrave chuckled after being called as such, then looked at where Onychinusa avoided the touch of the dryads. Anneliese caught onto Argrave’s thoughts, for she raised her hand and volunteered, “I’ll go with her, Argrave. The mandragora, will it pose any problems...?”
"No," Argrave said dismissively, casting a spell to make his Brumesingers follow her. They bounded into her arms eagerly, docile and obedient before her. “I’ve got Orion, you forget,” Argrave said, patting his brother’s worn golden armor. The man jumped, as he was lost observing the dryads. “And Myriarch Batbayar will come, too. But the books... best give them here.”
Anneliese nodded, then discretely retrieved them from her pack and handed them off as the Brumesingers turned into butter in her grasp. “Good luck,” she nodded at him.
“Don’t let the kids trick you,” Argrave reminded her.
Argrave was ready to leave after placing the books in his pack, but Batbayar was staring at him. “Perhaps you ought to explain this ‘sister’ of your queen’s. Fully.”
Argrave slung his pack over his shoulder, then nodded. “Sure, but... on the way.”
“Fully,” Batbayar repeated for emphasis.
Argrave held his hands out. “Of course. Fully.”
#####
Argrave did not explain things fully.
...but, he explained enough that Batbayar thought he did. On their journey deeper into the underground ruins, all the myriarch came to know was that Onychinusa was the last of the ancient elves. Argrave was especially conscious of the fact he deliberately deceived an ally for convenience after Dimocles called him out for it. Still, just because he was aware of it didn’t mean he was going to stop. He didn’t have a problem, surely. He could stop anytime he wanted.
For a while they endured the chatter of the dryads. In time their mocking and teasing faded away, taking all of the warmth from these cold stone ruins. All outside light dimmed, and the only thing that illuminated their path was Argrave’s spell. The building wound downward in a long, prolonged spiral. There were branching rooms at points, and though Argrave remembered them being open for exploration, now many of them were caved in by the intrusion of the thick redwood roots.
They encountered the first Yettle fairly deep in. When it fell upon the light, it looked like a goblin who’d had a losing argument with a thorn bush. Its giant eyes widened terribly wide and it scurried away. Orion chased briefly, but stopped and came back to Argrave’s side when called.
And when next they saw them, they were thirty.
Orion rushed right into the fray at once without even a weapon on hand. They cast rocks at him with slings, and he took them all without breaking stride. When he came upon them, they scrambled back like monkeys, swinging vine whips or crude implements of wood that looked like pickaxes. Orion merely raised his foot up and slammed it upon the ground, calling upon one of his myriad blessings still with him to send out a wave of ice.
With that they were stunned, and the prince was upon them. He used his arms rather efficiently—by slamming them against the walls, the floor, or the ceiling, he needed only one arm to crush an opponent. Orion ended them ruthlessly one after the other, leaving large craters in the stone carvings that shook the room they stood in. The Yettles died silently, lacking the parts to scream.
When it was done, Argrave cautiously broached, “Orion...”
“Yes, Your Majesty?”
Argrave looked at the battered walls and then said, “...maybe don’t slam them against things, given how many cave-ins we’ve seen coming here.”
Batbayar gave a supporting nod.
“Ah.” Orion rolled his shoulders. “I behaved imprudently, Your Majesty. Forgive me.”
With that sagely wisdom imparted, the three of them advanced yet further. More things blocked their path, but Argrave conjured a blade of blood magic for Orion to use. The weapon proved to be quite effective, speedily clearing a path as the winding spiral descent leveled off. The end was a large room functioning as an entryway that mirrored the courtyard they’d seen outside—four pillars, four monuments. At the end, there was a large archway that led to an area Argrave anticipated would be dark and empty.
But it wasn’t. Indeed, this area was illuminated well enough that Argrave could see into the room somewhat. What he saw made him hasten his step, then crouch low and peek past the pillar of the archway.
The memory in Argrave’s head was clear. He had been expecting to see a wide-open cavern, two waterfalls on each corner that fed a converging stream supported by abundant and beautiful plant life. This stream then wrapped around a serene building, its serenity disturbed by a mandragora taking root just at its entrance. This place had been the secret garden of the ancient elven imperial family. Here, an abdicated sovereign had built a library and a reading area to relax and tend to plants after his reign.
Argrave did see the mandragora. To call it a plant dragon was apt. It had a large wooden body, almost like a stump, the top of which had a dozen heads that resembled venus fly traps. They were clearly intelligent, moving quickly and at will. It was here, just as he remembered it.
The rest was not as expected.
Where there had once been a wide-open garden, Argrave saw a sinkhole that had undoubtedly been caused by the numerous redwood roots winding their way into the cavern. At the back, the two waterfalls fed only an endless abyss. The mandragora stood atop the only remaining solid land, supporting a lone pillar with its partially-exposed root network. One small mercy was that the library Argrave had been seeking was close enough to the mandragora that it had been spared collapsing into the sinkhole. The massive chasm between him and said library killed any joy he might’ve felt.
The Yateveos—squirmy, writhing abominations that had a core that looked like a brain and palpi with tiny mouths at their ends—slowly crawled up the base of these roots, eating away with their disgusting mouths. The mandragora bit at it, but its were of yet insufficient to catch them. One small mercy was that it did not deign to scream at plants without ears, elsewise they would already be in pain.
Batbayar walked behind Argrave and whispered, “Given how white you’ve gone, you didn’t expect this?”
Argrave shook his head. “Not a bit.”
The thing he’d hoped to have an easy battle with was now the only thing keeping that library from plummeting into the abyss... and looking down into the hole, Argrave didn’t have high hopes for getting the shamanic magic he needed should it fall.
#####
Anneliese and Onychinusa stomped through the undergrowth, following after the dryads at a slow pace. There was canopy above and undergrowth afoot, rather opposite all in the Bloodwoods they'd come from. This place was the home of the dryads, and far removed from the giant redwoods of the land outside.
Dryads dangled from the canopies above, grasping at the hair of both of the women as they followed the dryads leading them ahead. Onychinusa resisted stubbornly and swatted away the green hands that came near, refusing to allow them to do what they wished. Anneliese, however, let them work. They crafted her a tiara out of leaves, weaving it into her hair delicately.
“Won’t work. Won’t work!” one of them said after a time. “The mistake of passion has thick, pretty, and white hair, but it is made for the cold, and she has small ears to hide from the wind! We cannot make it do as we want!”
Mistake of passion? Anneliese noted in her head. They must be... talking about me, she realized sadly. And they called Argrave... what was it... big bastard? Then they know his birth as well as mine. How much do these creatures know of us?
“Why do you call me a mistake?” Anneliese asked, looking up.
The dryads were right-- the tiara did not stay in Anneliese’s hair, sliding free from the slightest movement. She knew the answer to the question she asked, but wished to grasp the extent of their insight.
“Your daddy loved your mommy. But she didn’t! So he took what he wanted... just once, he told himself,” one of the dryads said, hanging down from the branches above by its legs. “And then... bam! Mistake.” She pointed at Anneliese. “That’s you. Oopsie whoopsie.”
She felt like she’d swallowed bile, so abruptly confronted with this. She’d never seen her true father, never spoken to him. Indeed, she seldom thought of it. To hear it laid out like this made her more uncomfortable than she imagined... but perhaps there was more that could come of this.
In her own curiosity, she asked, “Then... the man I was with, the one you called ‘big bastard.’ Can you tell me about his mother? And Onychinusa, even her parents?”
“Umm... maybe,” another dryad answered. “Maybe, maybe. If the old lady lets us touch her hair!”
Onychinusa looked at Anneliese peculiarly. “We aren’t here to--”
“WE’RE HOME!” all of the dryads shouted at once, storming into a clearing ahead. It made Onychinusa jump up, holding her hands out in alarm. Anneliese had jumped a little too, but soon after she stepped after the rambunctious spirits of the woods while laughing it off.
In the center of the clearing, there was a large tree with a beautiful mound of branches above, each bearing imperial purple leaves and vibrant pink fruit. In these fruits, one could vaguely see the form of new dryads just being born. Anneliese was distracted admiring the beauty, and she nearly missed as an adult dryad stepped out of the tree.
“Forgive my children. They are hard to handle,” the dryad said.
Anneliese studied her curiously. She looked much like the children, with a dress of leaves and a mound of long black hair kept braided by a grandiose wooden crown. It was the same, just... older. A little beyond this clearing, Anneliese saw a giant hole in the ground, though she saw little more than that.
“With the forest of redwoods falling into disrepair, and with so many of my children stalled at this stage of growth... I had almost given up hope,” the mother dryad shook her head. “But now... you are here, Onychinusa, beautiful child of the empire. With your lineage, we can begin the process of healing, of growing this great garden... so long as you are willing.”
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