#baronyofthesilverwolf

"That's really nice of you, thank you." Thistle sits. "Something warm to drink might be nice? Fair warning, the sparkly idjit on my shoulder can get very enthusiastic about sweets."

Wincing, Madern says "I did not mean offense, Keeper, and of course your word is good with me."

The Keeper inclines her head slightly at Thistle’s acceptance, and gives a smile to Madern, graceful forgiveness.

Another small gesture, and a low table rises smoothly from the ground between them, shaped from pale wood and stone together as though it had grown that way. Goblets appear upon it a moment later, elegant and perfectly formed without any sign of carving or toolwork.

Clear water pours itself into them. It is cold as a winter stream, crisp and startlingly fresh.

“Or would you prefer something warm?” the Keeper asks. “I admit- I do not feel the cold.”

She looks between them for a moment, and then adds, “Will you tell me of your travels?”
Her eyes openly hopeful.

Art looks around, and remarks, "It is a beautiful grove. Are you here alone?" He seems to be searching for somethng, and his companions can practically read it on his face. No BOOKS, even?!

She picks up the nearest goblet, looking it over with an appraising eye. "Hunh." That sounds like approval.

"We've come from Silverwolf, which is a freehold ruled by Sun and Wyvern. On a bit of a mission, really, for the sake of hospitality."

Madern takes his goblet, "This will be fine, thank you."

The Keeper watches the exchange with quiet interest, her attention lingering on Art as he corrects the distinction.

At the mention of dragons and wyverns, her expression shifts slightly in recognition.

A small motion of her fingers sends a scattering of frost and pale snowflakes rising into the air between them. The flakes gather and turn slowly upon themselves, shaping into two tiny creatures formed of drifting ice.

One is long-bodied and elegant, with great wings and grasping forelimbs.

The other is leaner, more serpentine, its clawed limbs set into the wings themselves, no arms.

They circle each other lazily above the table with silent wingbeats, shedding faint glittering frost into the air as they move.

Citrine gives a surprised CHIME! from Thistle’s shoulder.

The Keeper watches the little figures drift around one another for a moment before looking back toward them.
“I remember debates about this,” she says. “Very serious debates.” A faint trace of amusement that fades to sadness, “Though I no longer remember who won them.”

At Art’s question, her gaze shifts briefly through the grove around them.

“Yes,” she says. “I am alone here.”

"Sounds lonely. And I'm a cranky introvert."

"Really Cranky," He agrees, "I think I'm the extrovert of the group and even that comes in fits." He watches the creatures as they form.

The Keeper looks at Citrine with interest and says, "Come, little one. I would admire you."

Citrine, ever vain, flits off Thistle's shoulder and flies right THROUGH the dragon and wyvern, which dissipate into snowflakes and fade away. In front of the Lady, for clearly she is such even without title spoken, the Clockwork neverlander poses and preens.

"She's not cranky! She's, er..." Art ponders, wishing Fornax was here, "...Particular."

A grin to Thistle.

A fond sigh.

"and some days she's PARTICULARLY cranky," Madern grins though to show it is meant MOSTLY in jest.

"I'm a nocker, cantankerous is in the description, right underneath "fond of expletives."

Madern looks about, wondering if there might be any signs of the Amberheart here or things mentioned in the visions and clues from earlier, not that he is completely sure what those would look like.

The Keeper watches Citrine closely as the little Neverlander poses before her.

For a few long moments she simply observes.

Then there is a small pulse of glamour in the air, soft and strange, like the muffled pop of a bubble beneath water.
Something appears hovering above her open palm. At first glance it resembles another Neverlander, tiny and delicate in shape, but it is entirely white, as pale as fresh snow beneath moonlight. Soft colorless light spills from it in a faint glow.

The little figure hovers uncertainly in the air above her hand.

“...chime?” it says. Or perhaps, “they,” uncertain and quiet.

Meanwhile...

Madern’s attention drifts upward toward the trees surrounding the grove. These trees themselves are unlike the pines lower on the slope. Their bark is pale beneath the snow, streaked in places with rich golden resin that gleams softly where it catches the light. The branches spread wide and high overhead, and hanging among them are clusters of fruit as white as fresh snowfall, each the size of a baseball: or perhaps, a snowball.

In the Near Dreaming like this, Thistle is somehow just... more. More colors, more rainbows, the ends of her hair moving and flickering like multi-colored wisps of flame. In many ways the opposite of snow and stillness.

Art can't help but admire her, even in the presence of the otherworldly Beauty, there is something... fresh, raw, and vibrant in his friend. More than friend, in fact, though they have not yet managed to put a name to it.

"That's Citrine. Silverwolf is a bit lousy with Neverlanders, but I guess she's kinda special. Has two whole braincells."

"Is....pardon," He points to the clusters of fruit, "Is that Amberheart Fruit?"

The little pale Neverlander drifts uncertainly in the air for only a moment before beginning to move toward Thistle, drawn like a moth toward flamelight. It gives another tentative little chime as it hovers closer.

The Keeper watches it go.

“My only company is that which I make for myself,” she says. “But it is fleeting. Not true companion.”
At Madern’s question, her gaze lifts toward the pale fruit hanging overhead among the branches.

“Yes,” she says. A pause, as she considers what he calls it, then the faintest flicker of recognition as she repeats. “Amberheart.” A trace of pride in the word. "Yes, it IS Amberheart." Both acknowleding Madern, and reminding herself.

“I occupy myself with growing it. It is a hobby, to pass the time... here where time stands still.”
This last, a bit quieter.

Art fidgets a little, and then can't help but ask, "Are you not lonesome here? Without even a book to read? Or do you have books somewhere?"

"So that's what it looks like," Madern admires it, "Lovely."

The Keeper continues to admire the little clockwork Neverlander for several moments more as Citrine preens proudly beneath the attention.

“Perhaps she would stay a while,” she says softly. At Art’s question, the Keeper grows quiet. She considers it for a long moment before answering.

“I used to know many stories,” she says. “But they fade over time. Ages I have spent here, or perhaps only moments.”

Her gaze drifts briefly through the grove around them before returning.

“And yet, it is better than the alternative.” For the first time since they arrived, a trace of fear passes over her lovely features. “The cold here is nothing compared to the cold out there.”

Madern ponders, "Do you like new stories?"

The tiny snownever touches Thistle's nose with a tiny delicate hand, and it's like a snowflake landing on her face.

Citrine puffs up a bit and whizzes back, shaking a finger at the Never with imperious chimes. Back Off! Is clearly the tone.

"Fuss. I'm not giving you up."

She chews on her lower lip. "Though if there's one Never, more do tend to show up. Like stinkbugs. Maybe if we're here a bit, it'll happen."

The Keeper’s attention returns to Madern immediately at the question. “Yes,” she says. “Very much.”

A faint smile touches her expression, small but genuine. “I used to know hundreds of them. Thousands, perhaps.”

Her gaze drifts briefly toward the trees overhead, toward the pale fruit hanging among the branches. “Now I find I sometimes forget the ending before I reach them.”

As her attention shifts away from the small snow Neverlander, its shape wavers in the air. The soft glow falters, thinning at the edges, and then it breaks apart into driftig frost and pale motes that scatter and vanish into the stillness of the grove.

He whispers to Art, "Art, do you have a book on you you'd be willing to trade for an Amberheart Fruit?"

To Thistle, thoughtfully.

“There used to be others here,” she says after a moment. Her voice is uncertain now, less steady than before. “I think there were.” A pause. “They left.”

Her fingers rest lightly on the arm of the chair as she looks out into the grove, as though trying to place the memory somewhere within it.

“Or perhaps…” She hesitates, then continues more softly, “they did not survive beyond the cold. Into the Cold of Autumn."

Her eyes return to them, and there is uncertainty in them, as if she is not fully sure which version of that memory is correct.

"Either way is sad." She frowns, but Art knows that face. There are gears turning.

Art starts to search though his bag.

"Well, I can ramble about some of my stories if you'd like? Like my first Case as a detective? OR tell you the saga of a farm boy named Luke who lived in a galaxy far far away a long time ago."

The Keeper’s attention returns fully to them, the uncertainty settling back into stillness as she studies each of them in turn - Nocker, Piskie, and especially the Sidhe.

She looks to Madern and asks, “Tell me a tale, how did you make your way here?” she asks. “Through the stillness, through the cold. From the cold, where Autumn roar and the Winter is crueler than any snow."

A pause follows, quieter than before. “You have survived it.”

Her gaze lingers a moment longer, then softens slightly. “You may stay here, if you wish. It is safer within the grove than beyond it.”

"That latter story isn't mine, but it's a pretty good saga for a bit," Madern gives credit to George Lucas.

Art has produced paper, pencils, note taking things, Thistle recognizes that portable tablet with the built in inkwell, a Yule gift.

"No books." He murmurs to Madern, with true sorrow, "Marigold made me make room for the gloves. She said books would be useless to me if my fingers froze off."

"There have to be snow-sprites.... if something were to attract their attention? A lure?"

"They're just as dumb as Nevers, of course, but kinda entertaining anyways."

Madern nods to Art, then says to their hostess, "How we made our way here? It all started with an arrogant guest, a lady of the owl, who showed little wisdom, but rather scorn to her hostess and her hostess' people. Harken then, to a woman who asked for what was not presented, then when finding out was was not, made snide jibes as if it were to be produced from nothing then and there, a gift far beyond our power these days, and who spurned all else repeatedly. This daughter of the Owl flew close to a Winter Sun and did try to bring a poisoned goblet, no true poison, but slander to be ... and the Sun, well, she was offended. Through wise counsel she was guided to seek an even greater prize for her holding, but she could not go herself... and so it was, she turned to a Star Struck Squire, a Mistress of Kiln and Craft, and a humble, but fairly good looking cook turned slueth to seek out an even greater fruit none could deny so it might be prepared by the greatest chef in all the land, one who the humble cook had learned only a fraction of the Chef's teachings from. So that the honor of the Holding the Sun's daughter and her fine people would shine thanks to the power of this rare fruit, and the chef's own amazing talent! A lesson and a way to dismiss the spiteful spurs of an ingrateful guest."

Madern is no Eshu, but he's hung with them, and at least is a decent novice at it.

Art considers, "The pathway here - it was empty. Not a single chimera or even a sound. Would a sprite have the power to break through that... what is it, a stasis field?"

Then he goes quiet as Madern speaks.

"mmph. Maybe a... pathway? Little lanterns?"

"And small enough that you're not letting through big dangerous critters."

The Keeper listens to Madern’s story without interruption. When he finishes, she gives a small, thoughtful nod.
“A journey set in motion by pride, and need,” she says. “And brought here through Winter and Sun.”

Her gaze drifts briefly toward the trees overhead. Then she turns and walks a short distance into the grove.

A branch lowers toward her as she approaches, slow and deliberate, and a single white fruit settles into her hands as though it has been waiting to be taken.

She returns, cradling it carefully, turning it gently in her hands.

When she looks up at them again, there is a pause, as if she is seeing them for the first time.

“Oh,” she says softly. “Visitors.”

A faint, courteous smile returns. “I do not see visitors very often.”