#baronyofthesilverwolf

Art rubs a hand on the pommel of his (often forgotten) sword, and then shows Madern his reflection in the shining silver.

He looks and groans! "Okay, the problem with having a hold with more than one Pooka in it is you don't know who to blame for sure." He wipes at his eyes with a cloth, mostly smearing it, then sighs "I suppose it's a sign of affection kind of. Let's go see if this is the right spot."

Art nods, and looks to Thistle, "Shall we?"

"Let's!"

As they move into the grove, they feel a stillness, a quiet, a peace that settles into their very being.

On Thistle, who is always changing, creating, it itches a little, like being pulled away from a half-finished idea to do something boring and already decided. Not painful, just frustrating in a way that sits under the skin.
Citrine gives an annoyed CHIME, and sticks closee to Thistle, on one shoulder.

To Madern, it feels a little confining, to one whose nature tells him to move and explore, perhaps not to the level of an Eshu, but he still has the blood of travelers in his fae veins.

Art, however, does not seem nearly as bothered, as though something has told him it is okay to focus and settle on one thing, like hunkering down with a good book and letting the world go by.

Madern shuffles his shoulders as if wearing a too tight jacket.

She fidgets, sort of but not really. Uncomfortable, feeling like embers instead of flames.

He breaks out a thermos, starting to understand why his skills could be useful, "Anyone some black coffee? Keeps me awake on long watches and it might help rev us here?"

As they step in, the clearing widens into a large grove surrounded by trees unlike those on the path. The bark is pale in places where thick, golden resin runs just beneath the surface, and scattered among the branches are fruit that gleam white as snow, catching the faint light of the grove.

In the middle is a dwelling space, simple and deliberate: a single chair and a small table, a small area to recline, little else. Sitting there is a single person.

She is lovely in a way that is almost difficult to look at directly, ethereal and heart-breaking, as if beauty has been taken and refined until there is nothing left to soften it.

Like Art’s loveliness turned many times over and sharpened - no mortal easing of her form, no sense of compromise between soul and body, just the clear presence of a true fae made visible.

Her hair falls long and flowing, shifting between silver and gold depending on how the light catches it, and her eyes are a deep amber that seem to hold the grove itself in miniature.

She turns to look at them.

Her expression does not change much as she studies them, as if visitors are not unheard of, just uncommon enough to warrant brief acknowledgment.

“I do not see visitors very often,” she says, her voice clear and smooth as rich honey, noting a simple fact.

Madern is stunned and almost drops the thermos. He should be used to beauty with the Baroness and other sidhe around. But a true fae, he... says "Ah, pardon, great lady. Are we intruding?"

She thinks for a moment, then says, "Are you? I do not mind. I have not had a visitor since..." Her brow crinkles delicately, a touch of uncertainty, but she waves it aside gently. "Some time."

Art exhales slowly. "Wow." Clearly impressed, though he has not loosed Thistle's hand, rather, he holds it a little more firmly.

Thistle fades slightly behind Art, but squeezes his hand back.

Introductions, his brain clicks remembering you're not supposed to just blather at beauty but maybe be a bit mannerly, "We're here on behalf of Silverwolf holding. This is Chief Innovator and Imagineer Thistle, and Squire Arthur , a fine young scholar. I'm Madern, a cook detective multi class... " So much for not blathering, "How do you wish to be adressed?"

The true fae listens as Madern speaks, and when he finishes, there is a pause.

“It is unusual for someone to find their way here,” she says at last. “No one arrives by mistake. Only by intent. Or by being led.”

A quiet settles again across the grove.

“And so I welcome you.”

When asked how she wishes to be addressed, she pauses, her expression shifting slightly as if the question requires thought. She looks away, and her mouth opens as if to speak... pause as the words don't come, then closes again. After a moment, she answers.

“You may call me the Keeper. This is my Grove.” Simply.

"Thank you, Keeper," Madern says, "We ... do come seeking something specific."

“Madern. Thistle. Art.” She says the names slowly, as though tasting them.

A slight gesture, and the ground shifts beneath them, snow and stone rising and smoothing into the shape of simple chairs. They form where each of them stands, natural as if they had always been part of the grove and were only now becoming visible.

The Keeper does not look for a reaction, nor does she seem to be performing, but it is clear that she has power in this place, the very ground answering to her thoughts and wishes.

The air feels heavier with glamour within the grove, rich and heady like a fine wine when they've only had water to drink.

"Please, sit. Rest. I welcome your company. Do you wish refreshment?"

Probably a Winter Wine given the situation "Very kind of you, but I'm told in the dreaming one must be careful of one one partakes lest they end up a part of a dream they cannot leave. If it does not offend I'll pass on the offer."

The Keeper listens to Madern’s refusal without interruption. When she speaks, her voice is softer than before, a touch of sadness.

“I would not offer you harm,” she says. “Not here. Not in my grove.”

There is a pause, and she continues, “I so rarely get visitors, may I give you my word and promise of hospitality?”

“I think she sounds sincere,” Art murmurs to the others, "And it may be hard to ask of her a boon if we reject her welcome."

and he looks to Thistle for her thoughts as well.

(pause)