>>5887544>>5887266>>5886759>>5886803>>5886904>>5886964>>5886726"Stop!" You find you voice echoing across the clearing, echoing in the silence that followed Clanirae's sympathetic, but somber, words. The assembled elves all turn to look in your direction- you've upset the solemnity of the moment, and most (if not all) would be annoyed if not offended.
Priestess Clanirae, however, looks at you with curiosity rather than anger. She waits patiently as you bob and weave through the mass of elves and approach the altar, acknowledging only a few scant whispers and glares from those you pass, wondering if you will make it in time, wondering what you will say if you do.
"This is our way, our tradition," she replies. "Her offering, her sacrifice."
The stag finds your eye, its golden orbs scanning you over inquisitively. You hold its gaze as you speak again.
"I know,” you say sadly. “I’m not trying to interrupt it, it’s just…”
You take a deep breath, steadying yourself.
“May I cast a spell to put it… Him… At ease? At peace?”
Clanirae smiles sympathetically. With one hand she reaches out to take your hand, and to guide it to the tearful hart.
“He is already at peace,” she explains, voice soft and slow, the tone one might use when explaining something to a small child. Perhaps, in some ways, this is how she regards you—all the elves of Earth, but YOU especially.
True to Clanirae’s words, the pristine and primeval deer, great and noble, meets your hand with his snout, without resistance. You reach out to it, and feel a kinship with the deer which you can’t deny.
“I could… I could make a <clone> of it,” you note.
Clanirae just shakes her head. She says nothing, but you already know—it is the soul itself that must make the journey, to complete the rite. Your <Clone> spell produces a soulless simulacrum—or so it seems, anyway. There’s so much more to learn… And only one way to learn it: you must see this through.
You ignore the murmurs of the crowd, the growing unease of the elves fo Dappulyet.
“I would… Stay with him, then,” you whisper.
Clanirae nods. She gestures for the assembled elves to settle down, though none had dared to speak against you or to interrupt your aside with the priestess. After all, you ARE the hero of the night and without you this ritual might not even be taking place. You’ll… Just have to live with that.
“Sreen'aur z'hind, sil'in uss.”
With these last words of comfort, the lunar eladrin places her hand upon your own and guide it to take the antlers. No mere participant any longer, you can still only watch as she brings the sickle to the noble creature’s neck. A bead of red wells up upon the tip, parting the whiteness of the creature’s perfect fur. You gulp. Your own eyes produce tears to match those of the sacrificial deer. You grip its fur, a squeeze of comfort, and cast <Calm> anyway—one last kindness.
At the last, you can’t help it. You look away.
