"Awwwhh... Tsk tsk tsk tsk. You have no idea how often I hear that," mused the Elven girl as she continued to playfully circle the gathering.

She stopped, spun on a heel, and faced Soules squarely, poking her head between two of the soldiers.

"Is this death?" she asked pointedly, her expression ever still amused. "Would you like it to be?"

She stood up straight and continued slowly skipping in a circle. "Or... Would you like the strength to get out of this? To reach Serendipity like you wanted?  New horse, even?"

The girl disappeared behind one soldier only to re-appear by walking out from behind Soules and into his field of vision. "After all, I can do what absent gods can't," she said. She struck a dramatic pose as if she were an actor upon some grand stage. "I show up to listen and answer!"

From that same pose, she disappeared in a puff of smoke.

"But how badly do you want it?" asked her voice. She had re-appeared behind him and taken to leaning on his back. "What would you pay for a wish?"

It started with a breeze carrying a coquettish giggle.

The world slowed to a crawl, then halted entirely. All except for Soules, though where his body stubbornly refused movement, his mind remained lucid. Time had stopped without, but not at all within.

There was that laugh again.

Like a character out of a storybook, an Elven girl stepped out from behind one of the soldiers. Hair like dancing flames caught the light as she spun in a playful, hypnotic dance.

"Quite a predicament you've landed in, hmm?" she laughed, taking amusement in the situation. "But where gods and kings won't answer... I am here."

She walked, occasionally skipping and hopping like a little girl as she circled the soldiers that had Soules as their captive.

"So... What madness took you, hmm?" she asked innocently. "What drives a man to such a long death?"

She stopped for a moment, tapping her chin. With realization, she clarified: "Oh, don't worry about speaking..." said the girl. She tapped a finger against the side of her head. "I can hear you just as well."

"I... Was hoping this week I might learn something... New," Dezrehn said, seemingly bashful or anxious about even asking.

Tathfheithleann was already halfway through cleaning the bench by the time the boy had even made the request. "New?" she asked, innocently curious. "What did you want to try?"

"Not sure if mordecai are born outside of Connlaoth," Tathfheithleann mused. "I've never heard of one, and any I've heard crossing the border usually get dropped before they make it too far into the country."

"Be sure to be careful with that," Dezrehn commented, his eyes drifting over the musket. "It's not a toy."

"Ooooh trust me, kid. I know," the Halfling jabbed with a humorous lilt in her voice.

The little mage rested the musket on her shoulder. "Come on, I want to show you something," she beckoned.

----------

Down in the workshop, Tathfheithleann guided Dezrehn through a myriad of tables and laboratories. An Artifice Workshop, Enchanting Workshop, and Alchemy Laboratory all located in the same basement. And somehow it felt surprisingly roomy. Perhaps there was something going on there as well...

The Halfling stopped at a smooth marble dais covered in various sigils and wards; her Artificing Bench. On it sat a small, black fountain pen; a stained ivory body tipped with a burnished brass nib. Next to it lay a matching, delicate white ivory brush, tipped with goat and wolf hair to form a precision point. Clearly the Halfling didn't do anything halfway.

"These are enchanting foci," Tathfheithleann explained. "And they're yours. You know those durability enchantments I taught you? If you can do one on parchment, try it on something like a stone or a broomstick. It'll be good practice for you."

The crossbowman panicked. Despite being in thigh-deep water, the soldier ducked down into the stream. One of his comrades took his spear and hurled it at Soules,

That family of the peasantry took off; the horse bolted down the road, two children holding on for dear life. One of them fell from the saddle, unused to the warhorse's stride, only to be helped up by his relatives. Desperation fought exhaustion as they continued to flee.

The first couple men-at-arms reached the other side and clambered onto the bank. The first man drew the dussack at his side, the second advanced with his spear. They were clearly tired and weighed down by their chainmaille and wet clothes, but even then they were intent on doing their duty.

"Just-... Just come quietly, lad," said the sergeant-at-arms as he brandished his dussack at Soules. "This don't need to end badly..."

A squad of eight men-at-arms, not counting their three hounds... Not good odds, not at all. Those weary war-dogs snarled and barked as they awaited their masters' command...

Dezrehn looked upset for some reason. Tathfheithleann pursed her lips in confusion; did he just not like magic and technology together? Or was it that something else was on his mind?

"What do you intend to do with it?" he asked, a frown obvious on his face. "I'm not... Sure what your game is with the gun."

"Gun?" she asked, confused. "... Oh- right, this thing. Well, it was a gift... Figure it would make a Mordecai think twice if I ever need to run away from one. Maybe reinforce the end, use it for a staff."

The Halfling woman leaned on the musket, again treating it like a walking stick. But for some reason, Dezrehn held onto that frown.

"... Alright kid," she said, heaving a sigh. "What's on your mind?"

The first man was nearly across the stream. A look of confusion mixed with revulsion smeared his features as he saw Soules give aid to the mages. A traitor, then! And they were so close to escaping.

The lead took up his spear and sent it soaring through the air; he hadn't aimed at Soules, nor any of the family. Instead he meant to skewer Soules' horse. The man in the back took up his crossbow and braced it against his belly to heave its legs back; it was a slow and clumsy ordeal, the crossbow was meant to be braced with the foot, rather than this way. Whether his horse was stuck fast with a spear or not, Soules had a few extra seconds before more missiles flew his way.

Tathfheithleann rested on the musket like it was a walking stick. It was certainly long enough for the Halfling to use it like one.

"I could help you set up some targets, if you wish," the boy offered. "But I'd recommend practicing somewhere secluded. It would be traumatic were a stray musket ball to hit someone."

Tathfheithleann shrugged. "My house is secluded enough," she replied. She awkwardly looked towards the dozen or so people that had walked their way up the path to her home to see her latest 'test.' "... Usually."

The Halfling examined the mound of dirt she'd shot at and plucked out a round, lead ball. She ponderously rolled in her palm and played with it in her fingers, humming a quiet, thoughtful note.

"Congratulations, Connlaoth... They finally managed to make something as dangerous as a Serenian ten year old," she commented at nothing in particular.

Tathfheithleann walked back to her starting point and held the lead ball pinched between two fingers. She extended her arm and muttered a quiet cantrip under her breath. Arcs of blue and white lightning jumped down her shoulder to her fingertips. Those sparks leapt from her fingers and formed a blue-white sigil in front of her hand, a simple shape rapidly rotating in place. The Halfling pulled her other hand back as if to bring an invisible bow to tension.

She released her "bowstring," and that lead ball flung itself from her fingers and through the circle with the same speed and violence as if it had been shot from the bore of the musket leaned against her shoulder. The ball buried itself in that same mound of dirt, though perhaps just a hair off to the right.

"Hm... Make that twelve year old," Tathfheithleann reassessed.

The Halfling woman examined the musket's body. It was simple in its design; no special flourishes or engravings in the wood; but the materials were top-grade, and its craftsmanship was nothing less than something made by a master's hand.

"I think I could make quite the focus out of this," she mused. "What do you think, Dezrehn?"

On rare occasion, gods might answer prayers. And when your prayers are answered, you don't ask why.

That family of six didn't even stop to get a good look at Soules clothing or the equipment on his horse. The four-year-old went first, followed by her sister of twelve, then two teenage boys. Their parents were last to clamber onto the bank.

From the other side came the hounds, followed quickly by their masters. They didn't shout at Soules; maybe they didn't even notice him at first. They shouted orders to each other, took up their dogs under arm, and leapt into the stream in a disorganized mob of fur and maille.

When the first soldier finally noticed Soules giving aid to their quarry, he yelled: "Stop them! They've got a rogue Mage!"

The Sirantil valley was always so uncomfortably warm this time of year. The sun gazes down overhead, and it would seem that only the myriad creeks and rivers- born of snowmelt- would give relief to the weary. Gentle winds caressed swaying grasses as trees slowly swayed together as wooden dancers in a melody of birdsongs.

A perfect day for a chase.

"They went this way! This way! Go!"

The quiet orchestra of breeze and birds were quickly drowned by the raucous cacophony of barking dogs and shouting men. Twigs snapped underfoot and branches broke aside to make way for a fleeing family. Six in total, parents and four children, sprinting like frightened deer through the brush, uncaring for direction; the safest place was "anywhere but here." Men-at-arms followed apace behind their barking hounds, clad in their maille and spears in hand as they made their dogged harry.

What misfortune falls that such a family found themselves forced to cross a wide stream. What choice was there? Swim, or be captured. One after another, words of reassurance spoken and shouted, they plunged into the water. Their youngest- a girl of four- had to be carried upon her brother's shoulders to keep from being washed away as they waded across. Those shouts of man and beast became louder and closer still.

In such desperation does one pray for a miracle.

"Never up close," Tathfheithleann answered. She looked down the primitive front bead sight, pointing it towards the ground. "I know how they work, but never saw the little moving parts."

She set it to half-cock and flicked the frizzen open a few times, if for no other reason than to let the frizzen-spring snap it back closed.

"The metal grade is good, nothing seems defective or out of place..."

The Halfling, in accordance with the instructions, loaded the powder and ball. She pulled to full-cock, aimed at a particularly menacing mound of dirt, and pulled the trigger.

First a click, shortly followed by a peal of thunder and the belching of fire and foul-scented smoke. Tathfheithleann clenched her eyes shut and lowered the musket,  waving a hand in front of her face as she coughed like she'd been sprayed with something awful.

"Agh-... Sulfur-...! What a stench-!" she coughed.

The boom had- to nobody's surprised- summoned a few of the more busy-bodied folk from the village. An elderly fisherwoman somehow had already made her way up the path.

"Miss Honey? Are you alright?" she asked.

"Aye! Yes! Just testing something!" Tathfheithleann answered.

The villagers were more-or-less accustomed to booms and snaps coming from Tathfheithleann's house. She was a professional, and they knew it; they were in no danger from her "tests."

"Came through my mail today," Tathfheithleann explained as she ran tiny, delicate fingers along the musket's finished wooden body. "I guess that old smith was able to find someone who could draw a 'Circle to me."

The musket arrived with its own powder horn and brass maintenance tools; all in a lacquered walnut box, too. Tathfheithleann lifted it up and town to gauge its weight. It might just be a useful walking stick, at least.

"I heard about these things last time I was in Connlaoth," Tahtfheithleann explained as she turned to face Dezrehn squarely. "You seen one before?"

__________________QUICK STATS
Name: Elthraye
Epithets/Other Names: "Granter of Wishes," "Bearer of Ambition"
Age: >1000, by its own memory.
Gender: Varies
Species: Outsider
Ethnicity: Varies
Height: Varies
Residence: N/A

__________________IN-DEPTH STUFF

Physical Description
Elthraye is, in its base state, formless. When it manifests, it can take the form of (largely) whatever it wishes or needs to be. In some cases it has been an aged Human man, in others an armored hulk, and others still an abomination of scales, scything claws, and wicked teeth.

Personality
The creature is typically playful, but cagey in attitude. It will go out of its way to protect those it has granted wishes to (see: Magic/Abilities below), but at the same time is reluctant to give much information about itself in plain speech.

Moreover, Elthraye seems to loathe contentment, but only in a specific context. The creature despises the mortal "go with the flow" attitude, but expresses joy at the contentment found in an accomplished goal.

Magic/Abilities

• Desire and Ambition – Elthraye's power waxes and wanes with what desires, ambitions, and wishes it grants. It has, in a minor capacity, the power to shape and bend reality to its will. However, its abilities has an upper limit to what it can influence, depending on the state of its power. These granted wishes (usually) have no (purposeful) ironic twist, if Elthraye can help it. Such a thing is not its purview. After all, what good would an enemy do, when a friend would do so much more? In fact, Elthraye will typically go out of its way to protect those it grants wishes to, as those fulfilled desires keep it alive and grow its strength.


• For Example: If a mortal wishes for "Wealth," Elthraye can readily and easily create things like a pouch of infinite gold, or simply materialize resources (for those who view goods as "wealth") for that mortal. However, if a mortal wishes "to be king of Serendipity," Elthraye cannot grant that simply because the amount of changes made to the world would be too great for the creature to manage. As a middle ground, a wish such as "I want a loving family," could be more easily granted as Elthraye can simply create facsimiles of people for that person to have as a "Family."


• Manifest Form and Power – The creature- while normally formless- has the power to manifest itself into a physical form (or forms, in some cases). Sometimes that is an old man, or an armored behemoth, or an animal, or even an eldritch abomination of scything claws and wicked teeth. Destroying the physical form does not seem to harm Elthraye in a meaningful way, as doing so would be akin to smashing a clay jug in an attempt to harm the water inside.


• Symbiotic Parasite – To call Elthraye a "true parasite" would be misleading. The creature does grant the wishes and assist carrying out the desires of its "hosts," but at the same time it takes their life force from them. Slowly and surely, it drains away at parts of their souls to grow its own strength and keep it alive.
  
  
• More Than a Name – "Elthraye" is a series of sounds the creature calls itself. The name "Elthraye" is more than simply a word or name, it is Elthraye. To know and replicate this creature's name is to control its very consciousness, as without it Elthraye is simply a concept without thought or presence.
  

Relationships


History
"So long as mortal life has wanted something- anything, I have existed.

Ambition, desire, want... These are things that have existed in the mortal mind even before those same mortals became aware of their own consciousness. It is from these things that creatures like Elthraye are born.

By its own memory, the creature "Elthraye" became aware of its own existence about a thousand years ago. Before that, it has no memory. From its very awakening, it knew its purpose and its needs. Unlike what mortals call "gods," Elthraye's power has a distinct and vaguely quantifiable upper limit to its powers, and its main goal to exist is to grow that power.

Folklore in both Serendipity and Connlaoth tell of a Granter of Wishes or a Bearer of Ambition, an entity with as many forms as it has variations of its legend. The commonality among these legends though is that the Granter of Wishes does indeed give people what they want, but what creeping doom does one bring upon themselves by making such a deal?

__________________THREAD TRACKER
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The Faerie girl was asking to take refuge here for a while, or so Aksho thought. He found it difficult to understand her with the way she stuttered or half-started her sentences. The elder beastman answered her with a simple shrug of his shoulders.

"Sleep here," he chuffed, nodding.

The beastman poured himself some water and dropped some spruce needles into it. Spruce tea, altogether common in most of Serendipity's village communities; or at least those villages that lived near the country's vast woodlands. He didn't seem concerned with Anoria's bedding or sleeping arrangements. There were plenty of pelts and furs to keep oneself warm, and plenty of shelter if one felt so inclined.

Tathfheithleann already had half-turned on her heel to leave by the time Grav and Kiara offered their thanks. Strange, she thought, that this would be the second time she had heard thanks like this in her lifetime. The first time was when she saved a little Connlaothan girl's life from sickness; though- in Tathfheithleann's mind- she had done little more than treat the fever. She forgot how these things that she took for granted seemed so much more profound to those outside her field.

The little Halfling paused for the briefest of moments, her lips drawing into a line on her features. She looked over her shoulder at the two adventurers.

"Don't thank me. Thank your friend in the Hallis-es," she flatly answered. "The family knows a mage I used to work with."

"Listen, if you ever... Need anything," Kiara told her. "A favor, a job, whatever. You can call on me."

"I'll buy that in now. Go to the Guild of Chirurgeons," Tathfheithleann replied, her tongue a blade point sharpened by years of fallout from people stepping outside of instructions given to them. "All I did was examine him."

The mage removed her silken gloves and replaced them in a little hardleather case on the belt around her dress.

"I'll be as honest as I can, as a professional..." Tathfheithleann explained. "I owed a favor to the Hallis' mage-on-retainer, that's why I agreed to examine you in the first place."

She sighed; this time her breath was a slow, weary one. If Grav and Kiara didn't know better, the look in Tathfheithleann's eye made it seem like the Halfling had just ran herself ragged from days of marching or exertion. The mage clicked her heels together and simply gave the two adventurers a nod before turning to leave. Back to her workshop and her projects. After all, she had a business to run; the Hallis' invoice was already processed.

"Yeah... What's a chirurgeon?" Grav asked.

"I second the question," Kiara chimed in.

Tathfheithleann blinked. Once. Slowly. Her face went near-completely statue still as she stood there in abject, stunned silence. When she finally did move, it was a single twitch under one of those lavender eyes of hers.

They didn't know.

The Halfling bit her lip. She almost bit it hard enough to draw blood as she sucked in a calming breath.

"A doctor. A licensed surgeon and healer, both magical and not," she finally answered after a few moments of awkward silence. "There's an organization of them here in Arca; they're certified not to kill patients or give you fake cures. Granted there's supposed to be certifications and tests all over the country, but regulations suddenly cease to exist outside of Arca's walls for some reason or another.

She pinched the bridge of her nose and cleared her throat to try and mask her emotions. "You'll find their clinics all over Arca," she told Kiara and Grav, her voice returning to its usual flat professionalism. "Go in, ask around for someone who understands mutagens, and ask that one to take a look at you. They'll write a record of their notes, or add to mine. The point is, you will get someone to look at you within the day. Every licensed Alchemist knows what 'urgent care' means. And because you got stuck by a rogue Alchemist, you're automatically 'urgent.' I put that in my notes too."

Tathfheithleann, ever the professional, gently took Grav by the wrist and snapped her fingers against. Grav felt a sudden surge like lightning across the skin of his hand and wrist. Shocking, perhaps, but certainly not painful. The Halfling drew a circle in the air with her finger and traced along it a second time with tiny, nearly-imperceptible twitches of her gloved digits.

The circle illuminated itself and out from it fell a wooden stylus covered in engravings of beautiful, winding vines. A layman might call it a "wand," and while that would not be a lie, it was inaccurate to the thing's actual function: A magic focus. Tathfheithleann dotted two places on Grav's wrist, or rather more accurately, she marked his blood vessels. Next to them she simply drew the number "3."

"It's not going to hurt," she explained.

The Halfling touched the back-end of the stylus against Grav's wrist. With a flash of light and the scent of ozone, those two marks opened Grav's wrist. They were tiny things, but they were bleeding a lot. The blood, surprisingly, did not fall from his arm. In fact it didn't fall at all. Tathfheithleann held Grav's upturned wrist, and his blood levitated out from the cuts upon him and pooled into a neat sphere levitating just above the site.

One second, then two, then three. On the third, his bleeding suddenly stopped, and his cuts closed themselves, his skin stitching together and leaving two neat, tiny surgical scars.

"Um, Ser Tathfheithleann? Not sure how relevant this is, but, ahh-..." Kiara half-murmured. "I just noticed that it seems like Grav has gotten... Fitter?"

The Halfling, without so much as blinking or breaking focus, gestured at her floating parchment with her stylus.

"Write that down," she told it.

The parchment stiffened as if to salute its enchanter, and Kiara's explanation wrote itself upon its vellum surface.

The floating sphere of Grav's blood was barely the cow's eye. Tathfheithleann released his wrist and the sphere floated to her beaker, depositing itself in it without so much as a single drop splashing against the beaker's walls.

The mage girl had to stand to see over her equipment where a Human could easily sit upon the floor. Halflings weren't particularly tall folk, after all. Her hands moved about her bottles and her stylus like water; the entire process of whatever arcane ritual she was performing was as a single motion. She had the hands of someone who had done this a thousand times, and she would do it a thousand more.

The blood sample in the beaker, mixed with all of those strange liquids, bubbled and blackened. Tathfheithleann tapped the glass with the back of her stylus, and that same black blood suddenly hissed a cacophony as a multitude of vapors and smoke rose from its surface. Yet, those selfsame vapors did not go anywhere, as steam or smoke normally would. Instead they collected in a solid, gray puck beside the glass in defiance of all reason. The Halfling seemed completely unbothered as she examined it with that same cold, clinical expression. After a few seconds, there was nothing left in the beaker; not even a residue.

"Well, you aren't turning into a bug. Or a plant. Or a crab," she said dryly in some attempt at humor. "And your blood isn't doing anything it isn't supposed to do."

Which was, of course, a very simple way of saying "you don't have any form of cancer in your blood." But the Halfling wasn't about to say anything out loud that would cause more questions such as "what is cancer?"

Tathfheithleann dropped her stylus into empty air; the little focus winked out of existence through a circle identical to the one it had fallen out of. She clapped her gloved hands together, and her equipment- summoned or otherwise- snapped to attention like soldiers called to muster. The vellum parchment rolled itself up and underneath it appeared a scroll case. That gray puck settled itself atop the vellum as the entire collective neatly packed itself. Within the minute, Tathfheithleann's entire field kit returned to her backpack and she was left holding a scroll case of hardened leather.

She extended it to Grav and Kiara. "Guild of Chirurgeons. Whoever they send, hand them this; it has all of my notes from today and the results of your blood test," explained the mage. "Absolutely. Nobody. Else. No quacks, no hedge healers, and no village wisefolk. Guild. Of. Chirurgeons. Understood?"

"What do you mean by 'no treatment at all?'" Grav asked as Tathfheithleann plied her trade. "That this could be temporary?"

"Again, ethics. Can't answer that directly," she replied. The mage shuffled over towards her field kit and produced a series of small reagent bottles with a beaker. "An old colleague of mine published a study on mutagens. Most victims of rogue Alchemist cases usually needed some form of treatment in order to get a... How to put it... 'Normal life' back if they wanted one."

She set out her reagent bottles with her beaker on the low table fore of the chaise. Normally it was used as a tea table or coffee table, today it would be a makeshift lab counter. The Halfling snapped her fingers with authority. Blue, crackling sparks leapt from the dull thwip of her finger striking the anvil of her palm, and a ripple like that of a fallen pebble in a pond raced across the table's surface. And just like that it was spotless. Not just clean, but completely sterile. One could practically see their own reflection in the wood varnish.

"Sit back down if you will," Tathfheithleann bade. "And give me a body part you don't mind getting cut. I'm going to take a look at your blood."

"But-... You aren't-... Afraid? To be alone here?" the Faerie girl asked. "What if- what if something happened?"

Aksho mused on the question. What did she mean "happen?" Things happen all the time. There is never a moment in this place where something isn't "happening." Roof thatching needed to be replaced, the firepit needed cleaning out, more ceramics needed to be made, hides needed to be tanned, food needed to be stored... Always something. The beastman hummed a rumbling basso as he thought it over. The old beast had a creeping feeling that he was missing the point.

"I mean- I'm sure you're quite capable," the Faerie chimed in after a moment of silence. "I did not mean to offend."

The elder beast only tilted his head in abject confusion. His puzzled mind was clear on his face as he stared at Anoria; the questions in his mind were nearly visible behind his eyes.

"... Ah?" he drawled. Even with all the thought he could muster... The poor old man had gotten lost somewhere in the conversation.

He adjusted his squat and scratched at an itch around his neck. He seemed to flick his ears when he was thinking about something. Most of what the Faerie girl had said tonight had him doing quite a lot of thinking, even if it was simply focusing hard enough to understand her version of their shared tongue.

"Not-scare alone," Aksho finally answered. He would try to reply to her first question if nothing else. "Old. Quiet... Good."

"Y-yes," Grav replied. "Very much so."

"A-yep... You're definitely changing alright," Tathfheithleann commented as she clicked her heels together twice. The Halfling girl levitated upwards and over the other side of the chaise. She tested the range of motion of Grav's neck and felt along the young man's muscle to feel for any abnormalities she may have missed. "Lucky for you, the one who did it at the bare minimum knew enough to keep your change slow enough to let you adjust."

"Could being stuck with manticore quills without reacting to the poison have told him I might survive his mutagen?" Grav asked.

"Can't answer you directly. Not legally anyway," Tathfheithleann flatly answered. "But to a more general point, you're kind of supposed to survive. That's-..." The little mage gave an exasperated, sharp sigh. "Point is, any Alchemist who kills a subject should be called a murderer. I don't share my trade with punk Hedge Mages boiling horse urine in their basement."

She rolled her eyes at the thought. Clearly Tathfheithleann had something of an axe to grind with people like Anton Volke. She was certified after all, and what a series of trials that was.

"Wait wait," Kiara chimed in with a raise of her hand. "Illegal mutagens? So... What, Grav is now physically an illegal substance?"

Another sharp sigh from Tathfheithleann. Not at Kiara, but at the elusive Anton Volke. "No. He's not illegal," the Halfling answered. "Your friend here is a victim of a rogue Alchemist among other things."

The little mage floated back down to the floor, reflexively evening out her skirt like that of a schoolgirl hit by a breeze. "My suggestion, as a professional, is to ask the Guild of Chirurgeons to take another look at him. I'll give you everything from my examination here. I'm not a healer; they'll see things I can't. Once they do that, then I'll know what to start researching to treat him, if he needs treatment at all."