Pyria cries a lot these days. She doesn't let anybody see that she's upset though; there are too many people that rely on her, she tells herself. She knows that's not completely true though, but it's what her family had always told her. Her old family. Nowadays, she's surrounded by people who care about her plentifully. They understand her struggles, but, to her credit, they do rely on her. She knows that if she were to show weakness, it would not be judged. It would probably help her out. But she can't bring herself to do so. She still has a point to prove.
It's been years since she saw her family. Her family by blood. The name which haunts her, that which follows her just as much as her actual, much more tangible scars. Ornthalas. But of course, she doesn't remember, and has never been able to do so. Sometimes, she gets flashes: brief moments of reprieve from amnesia. However, the more that she remembers, the less sure she is that she wants to understand the whole picture. That, of course, is another lie that she tells herself. She would give nothing more than to understand all the events that led to where she is now. To be the captain at the helm of her life, a life where she currently resides as a singular cog in a much larger system, designed by another.
There's plenty that's interesting about Pyria now, though, and it would be hardly very profound or respectful of her privacy to tell you every one of her innermost desires and vices, stemming from a deeply troubling life starting long before today. Returning to what our protagonist is up to, it would be clear to anyone that she has been crying. Recently, even. Two faint dried streams mark lines in makeup that would otherwise be too subtle to notice. She notes that very slight sensory difference that dried tears make on skin and sets down her pen. She reaches for her handkerchief and waterskin, gently pouring as little of the contents as possible into a small section of the cloth, pooled in her palm. Taking a final, shaky inhale, marking a point where she tells herself to stop crying, she collectedly dabs under her eyes.
Setting down the cloth, Pyria shifts her body slightly to catch a glance of herself in a small desk-mirror, checking her tear-tracts. Through her eyes, looking back at herself, she sees an ingenuine smile across the face of the figure in the mirror. She wants to be unrecognisable, she wants to move on from her past life, but staring back at her is exactly who she has been since her young adult life began, some decades back.
Granted, there are certainly changes. Her once pale and fair skin is now significantly tanned through repeated exposure to the sun since her exit from the city. Similarly, her pointed ears have clearly suffered blisters for the same reason. Her once beautifully tended hair, while still the same colour, does not receive the same attention these days. Instead, she simply slicks it back to a tight bun; it's more practical that way. But under it all, the eyes which stare back at her are still a brilliant viridian green, and her characteristically defining layer of freckles still lie on her upper cheeks, only exaggerated by the sun.
She concludes that she looks okay. Back to the desk. Let's get this over with, she thinks to herself. Quickly, and with evident purpose, she folds together the parchment on which she was writing to and begins searching the side drawers in her desk for an envelope. If you were wondering why she was crying, it's because the contents of this letter mark an endpoint in her life. It's to an old friend, one whom she fell out of touch with, for one reason or another. Even she's not sure what that reason is.
But it's fine. This is her moving on. She continues to struggle through the drawers. There's plenty of envelopes (she sends a lot of letters) but she needs one very specific envelope. One that she can be one-hundred percent certain will arrive, which is a useful tool when you're not sure why somebody is ignoring you.
Not in that drawer.
She's sent several of these before; the envelopes were a gift from the aforementioned.
Where is it?
She upturns carefully organised ledgers in search. They were a gift to ensure they would stay in contact. So they wouldn't lose each other. To ensure safety.
Where the fuck is it!?
Pyria slams her fist onto the table in frustration. She stops herself momentarily.
Breathe. She breathes, calmly. Inhale. Exhale. Repeat. Restarting her search, she deliberately removes the contents of the drawers, and steadily sifts through one pile, placing each item into a separate pile as she notes its not-envelopeness.
It takes less than a minute for her to find what she's searching for. Victorious (and relieved), she replaces the drawer contents and twists her body to return front face at her desk, now with all the major elements in tow required for sending a letter (minus the stamp, but as we'll see, Pyria has a workaround).
She sets all the elements alongside one another in a precise and organised manner, easily allowing her to slide her parchment and written word into the envelope. She folds the triangle in the paper, and presses the enchanted seal firmly onto the connecting segments.
Pyria has sent maybe a dozen or so similar envelopes, to a handful of recipients, but it has never lost its novelty. The excitement. She does nothing more than pick it up, then let it go. Upon doing so, the letter suspends itself in the air for a moment. Then, within an instant, the whole object, in its entirety, collapses into the seal as if crumpled and swallowed whole by The Arcane. She smiles at the spectacle and uses her index finger to dab away a single, final tear.
Pyria has had a lot of time since her friend vanished from her life. Although both herself and I will give her flak for not getting over what can only be described as a tragedy, she has come a long way. She knows that closure would help, but she's starting to come to terms with the fact that she may not get any in this particular case. Like I said, sending this letter marked an endpoint in her life. Pyria's friend, his identity and who he was, are important to who Pyria is today, but he is not important to this story. The clever among you may even be able to ascertain his name from my prose, but let's keep it to ourselves.
Grove Kino, named by Pyria after an old friend of hers, is home to a group of druids which share a namesake with their location: The Druids of Grove Kino, as led by Pyria, the Great Druid of Grove Kino. If it's unclear what a druid is, they're similar to wizards, but with nature. If it's unclear what a wizard is, the majority of this world calls them "arcano physicists", but I'm old-fashioned.
Now, aside from all the interesting parts I mentioned above, the act of sending a letter isn't interesting. On the other hand, today is interesting. As any other year, the 5th Torday of Xin can only mean a celebration (in most cultures)! Now, although I'm certain you already know, this is the exact date on which Carrae-cairn lies. It's quite unfortunate to be so close to the Xinishi festival, and as a result a small chunk of those people who rely on Pyria at the grove have taken leave for a few days, ever so slightly lightening the load of leadership on a culturally significant day. What would normally be an annoyance is welcomed, even if the effect is negligible.
Pyria had never been one to celebrate Carrae-cairn. It's not a holiday she remembers growing up with, and even the earliest years where her memory resumes, it's not something that is typically celebrated in the city. The previous year, following the resignation of her predecessor, she had opted to give the ceremony despite her non-celebration, for the benefit of her peers at the grove. Pyria, like many good leaders in this world, understands how important it is to honour the dead, even outside of traditions. This year she plans to celebrate with the grove. After all, she finally has reason to.
Carrae-cairn is of particular importance to druids, and is especially culturally significant this close to the wall (a point we shall return to). While strictly, Carrae-cairn only describes the ceremony which takes place later today at sundown, generations of druids and the ancestors of surrounding groves have, over centuries, spun the holiday into a celebration of life; much more apt and representative of their goal at Grove Kino, to heal. Much more indicative of their beliefs: it is not druidlike to dwell on loss, their life should instead be celebrated and remembered. Healing from a loss is encouraged in a society like this. It makes one stronger.
Pyria stands. She pushes the chair neatly under the desk in a juxtaposition of the clutter which lies atop. Addressing her surroundings, she recalls that Tibs, her most promising trainee (in magics and little else), had made her aware that the ritual stones had been prepared earlier, and placed somewhere in her hut. It takes her a moment to spot them, but as expected, a heaped bundle of flat, smooth stones is laid by the door.
She sighs. She knows for a fact there are far too many in this one bag. She knows that Tibs also knows this, and was too lazy to redistribute the contents among more bags. Pyria reaches for a nearby pile of burlap sacks, found shunned to a corner of the room, and pours the ritual stones onto the rough, carpeted floor.
Methodically, she begins moving the stones into the new bags. Each roughly the size and shape of her palm, she moves two to three at a time. It takes only a few minutes to better organise the stones into four bags, each of which now supporting a more reasonable weight.
Transferring the final few stones from the floor she regards some of the inscriptions imbued by the grovefolk. Each one is engraved or otherwise marked with a single name. Most are written in Almaran, but there are a handful in a beautifully inscribed Spyrian Sylvan and one notably written in what Pyria assumes is some old-Olforan Dwarfish. There isn't a single Dwarf in the grove, so this is interesting, but not strange. It is often tradition to write the name of a loved one in their native language, which is likely the case here.
Once finished, Pyria stands, and stares for a moment at the product of her organisation. She retrieves her own stone from a pocket, carefully engraved with the word "Ulna", and places it gently into one of the bags.
Somewhat abruptly, as if struck with an idea, she peeks her head through the curtained passageway which makes up her front door. Three passerbys turn and acknowledge her, now facing her. One, a teen half-orc boy, straightens his posture as Pyria's gaze matches his. She recognises him, but isn't familiar with his name.
"You're Barrik's kid, right?" she questions.
The boy nods. "That's right, Great Druid. Name's Skurm."
"Could you fetch Tibs, please Skurm? Get her to bring three of her friends. Or actually, let's say two friends–and yourself."
"On it, Great Druid." The young boy jogs his way towards town. The other two passerbys continue about their day.
Pyria fully exits her hut, waiting for him to return. She notes the position of the sun in the sky. She suspects around two hours before sundown. It sits at a steep angle but its heat can still be felt, exaggerated on Pyria's west-facing side, partially obscured by a profoundly lush tree between herself and the rest of the desert.
The grove was once as barren as its surroundings. Or rather, the space where the grove now exists was once barren. These druids, led by Great Druid Yul'turé, used to be travellers exclusively, never settling. It was their one goal to observe the wall. The wall which lies on the equator, dividing the planet neatly into two hemispheres, encased like a snake surrounding its prey.
Since Pyria has been at the head of command, the time for simply observing has concluded. What lies on the other side is breaking through, so she has shifted the goals of the group, and now they work to push back whatever is trying to emerge. Of course, Pyria knows what lies on the other side. She doesn't know it all, but she knows more than she lets on to the rest of the people who rely on her.
To help the druids in their pursuit, it has been much more effective for them to settle down and build a community and infrastructure rather than travel in a sandswimmer driven eternal caravan. Everyone seems to appreciate the change.
As a result, the surrounding area from their chosen settlement location has become somewhat of a haven from the toughness of the elements in the desert. Sand transmuted to dirt and grass; cacti transformed into grand, old trees, older than they ever could have been naturally. All of these changes were an unintentional but appreciated side-effect from the increased use of nature magics performed by a flock of druids, allowed to thrive now that they have remained in one place for long enough.
Tibs leisurely strolls towards Pyria until she notices Pyria has an eyebrow raised in concern. It takes Tibs only a second to understand Pyria is concerned about the time. Tibs gestures to Skurm and her friends to hurry with her, and they all jog towards Pyria.
"What's up, Great Pyria?" Tibs asks, harboring a blank stare. She knows what Pyria wants. She does not want to carry anything.
"Drop the formalities Tibs. No elders about here. They're already sleeping. Napping rather–in preparation for the ceremony."
"Thank you, Miss. What do you need from us?"
Pyria pulls aside the curtain which covers her hut. She gestures towards the bags of stones. Tibs lets out a sigh.
"Do I–"
"Yes."
"You didn't let me finish."
Pyria raises an eyebrow in anticipation.
"Do I have to?" Tibs finishes.
"Yes."
In defeated acceptance, Tibs speaks "Fine. Where are we going with them?"
"You've done Carrae-cairn before. Load them onto the cart and we'll all head over to the cairn in… let's say half an hour? Inform the rest of the grove. Make sure to wake Miylik, and get him to wake the others."
"Understood, miss." The group of teens and young adults work quickly in distributing the task amongst themselves and leave Pyria's hut a few moments later.
She appreciates the following silence, but wastes no time in moving onto her next task: she must be dressed for the occasion.