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Morgonlilja
The Imago of the spell forms in Morgonlilja's mind, each part of it envisioned to let her slip through the Gauntlet. She mumbles a few words in the High Speech, each syllable dripping from her tongue resonant with arcane power, a strange and outlandish tongue that defies human understanding. Once done, the magic takes shape, and the Shaman blinks out of the human world and into the Shadow, the world of spirits.
She looks about herself, inhales a deep breath, a faint smile forming on her lips. She was back in the Cresheim Creek, eager to explore its surroundings.
ST
On the other side of the Gauntlet, the Creek teems, practically the foyer to the kingdom of the River Court. Spirits that are some approximation of otters chitter brightly and bat wisps of Essence back and forth like toys, rushing gouts of water spirits swirl the nexus of the Creek itself, and feathered Ensah on legs like thin stalks take delicate steps through the soft, loamy soil that shores the waterbed.
Spirits of trees in tight copses sigh and murmur, gossip, and when the wind blows, the whole space breathes, syncronized inhales and exhales, like it was all one organism, comprised of its many and varied parts. In brief, it's beautiful.
Morgonlilja
The Gauntlet here is weak, not much more than a thin membrane that separates the physical from the ephemeral. Morgonlilja inhales a deep breath. The air here felt crisper, fresher for some reason, like it was a place that had remained untouched since the the dawn of mankind. Untouched, perhaps, but not unchanging.
She focuses inwards again, manipulating her Pattern with wispy strands of the Spirit Arcanum, casting another spell to allow her to understand and communicate with the denizens of the Shadow. It takes only a few moments to complete the spell and then she starts moving over towards the creek, looking out towards the bubbling spirits, another smile emerging on her lips. Water was her favourite element. It was fluid. Persistent. It digs through stone. It shapes and changes itself as needed.
"Hello, little ones," she starts, addressing the chittering otter-spirits. "Is this the territory of the Wissahickon Heron?"
ST
One of the spritely little otter-creature spirits is so caught off guard by Morgonlilja's sudden appearance and her address that he turns mid-catch and the Essence wisp thunks him right in the head. The Essence only absorbs right into him, but he behaves as if struck, dramatically clutching at his grapefruit-sized dome and bowling over.
Then he remembers, he turns back towards the Wise One and sits up high on his back legs, spine rigid. He narrows his eyes at her in ridiculous and over-the-top suspicion. Higher he rises, and higher, up on tippy-toe paws; he is still only a few feet tall, so he bounces upwards, makes eye-contact with the Thrysus, and then does it again for good measure before softly landing back down once more.
This thorough and strange investigation completed, the little spirit gestures towards the area, towards the mouth of the tributary that feeds the creek, which falls in a short but lovely waterfall, itself a spirit, and gives a little nod. << The Heron and the Heron's umia are here! Not always. Not often! But also always. >> What.
Morgonlilja
Morgonlilja kneels down on the ground so that the two of them are on a somewhat equal level, resting her hands against her thighs and tilting her head slightly to the side. What a curious little water spirit. She idly rubs the side of her neck, contemplating the answer she had been given. Not always, not often, but always. Why were spirits so fond of speaking in riddles?
"Would you show me where to find the Heron's umia? Do you know?" She grins at the otter spirit. "I heard about the Heron. They seem like an elusive sort. I am very much looking forward to meeting them."
ST
<< Tell me your name, >> the little spirit demands, balling his paws into fists and resting them on what could be hips. << I am Thirsua! You may call me that. >> He does seem to appreciate that she has knelt down to his height and takes two paw-footed steps forward, leaning forward, whiskered-snout twitching, nose like a little black bead as it sniffs at her. <<Not a werewolf.>>
Morgonlilja
"I am Morgonlilja. And no, not one of the werewolves. I am of a different people." She flashes a grin at the water spirit. "It is a pleasure to meet you, Thirsua." Morgonlilja leans closer to the spirit, nostrils flaring slightly as she mimics his sniffing, inhaling his scent. "A water spirit."
"But not from the Heron's Choir? Do you belong to another one? Or, perhaps, a more free spirit?" She starts chewing on her bottom lip, eyebrows knitting together and a thoughtful expression settling on her features. "Have you always lived here? At the Cresheim?"
ST
Thirsua loves the sound of his own name, even with that stuffy Mage accent, and his little cheeks chuff. << My umia is playing in the river, >> Thirsua explains; it is, in fact, about a dozen or so similar little scruffy creature-spirits, amphibious in some manner or another. << In your tongue, you would call them Dancers Who Make Glad the Water. But the Heron? No. The Heron's umia dwells here but does not stay here, not often. The Heron is a great spirit, and ancient. I have never seen the Heron myself, but I saw its servant once! And yes. Always here, always the river, this river. I opened my eyes here for the first time. >>
Morgonlilja
The Mage utters the High Speech again, like some ancient, forgotten language that contorts and twists the human tongue, releasing a higher Truth when it fills the air. A Truth that bends reality to its will. Morgonlilja draws on the resonance of the bubbling creek, the waters that flow nearby them, and the tranquil nature around them, channeling it into motes of Essence that flows into Thirsua. A reward. Or a bribe, perhaps.
"You have proven to be useful, little one." The Shaman's voice is pleased, her praise accompanied by a grin dancing across her features. "The Heron and their umia dwells here, but they do not stay here. I think I should follow this creek. See where it leads. What other spirits inhabit it." She rises to her feet, brushing her palms against her knees, then looks down at Thirsua. "Dancers Who Make Glad the Water. I have met people like that. Humans. Far, far away. Their waters were much more vast, spanning spaces that you and I could barely fathom. There lived spirits in those waters too. Ocean spirits. Deeper, vaster, more ancient than perhaps even the Heron. Hm."
ST
Thirsua does not understand High Speech any more than a cricket understands the First Tongue, but he basks in the warm and fuzzy glow of being infused with Essence that matches his exact Resonance, that matches the Creek's Resonance. He practically glows, stuffed on the ephemeral frequency.
<< You are kind, afhal Morgonlilja. I think I will keep you. >> He bobs his head in a decided nod. << Be careful of the Butterfly Thieves! >> And with that bizarre, context-less warning, he scampers back to his umia and plunges into the water.
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