Chapter 4: The Waters of Menehune

Regan looks around as the snippets of conversation intensify into a twisted facsimile of laughter. "Oh knock it the hell off!"

"Aye, I understand. You have my word," Admiral promises, solemnly.

REGAN

The chaotic clamor abruptly stops upon Regan's exclamation. After a moment of silence Regan can make out the dark silhouette of a hulking human-sized figure stepping into a bank clearing with a gruffy huff. Even under the night-time jungle canopy Regan recognizes fey-like features, including large antlers protruding from the figure's head. The figure kneels and a bird flutters from a nearby tree to perch on the figure's hand.

Silence remains...



ADMIRAL

With Admiral's assurance Aldran continues:

"The boy you saved, Nai Nai was never meant to be here. He was meant to be exiled with his mother, cast out from the River Court as the law demands. His father, Prince Varendel, loved a naiad of the Emerald Glades, a fey of no noble standing. Her name is Saphielle. She is of the pools that lie hidden in green-shadowed dells. She was wild and free and her beauty and spirit captivated Varendel. But for his love, she was condemned, and for bearing his child, she was cast into exile."

The Fossergrim’s gaze grows distant, as though watching an old memory ripple across the water. "But the Queen… she couldn't bear to lose the child, her grandson, her own spirit. Though Naidra rules with the cold wisdom of the river, her heart is still a mother’s heart. So she took the child, stole him from the path of exile, and placed him here, where no noble of the court would look, among the lost and the forgotten."

His voice drops lower. "Saphielle never knew. She believed her son had been lost to her, taken by the judgment of the court, never to be seen again."

The Fossergrim turns his gaze back to Admiral and Cordey, his expression heavy. "Naidra used to visit the child, though he never knew her true nature. She came disguised, a wandering naiad who hums water songs. She called him Nai Nai before the others. He knew her as his grandmother, but not as the Queen."

The Fossergrim sighs again with grief. "She believes him safe, because she believes the River Court does not look here. But if she learns what nearly befell him—the hag’s enchantments, the whispers of darkness in these waters—she will know that she has been blind. And she will be desperate to protect him."

He lets the weight of those words settle before adding, "She would not risk losing him. If she fears her deifiance of the River Court may be revealed… then she will bargain on your terms, not hers."

He steps forward, meeting Admiral’s gaze. "That is what you hold over her. Not defiance. Not force. But the truth she cannot afford to face."

Regan takes a moment to eye the figure before telling the others, "Stay here. Stay alert."

With that, Regan will make his way towards the fey figure. "Well met. I'm Regan. What brings you out tonight?"

REGAN
Jin nods in understanding and agreement with Regan. He then looks firmly at his troupe, Tasya, Mischa, and Caspian, as if to pass on Regan's orders. Taresh, despite not responding directly to Regan, nonetheless appears calm and alert.

Regan then swims a short distance from the skiff and quickly makes it to the bank, stopping 70 feet or so from the figure. The moon shines through trees and Regan is able to get a better look at the figure as he makes an address. Regan sees a weathered fey, broad of frame and a bit gnarled with time. His massive horns twist like the roots of an elder tree. His skin is marked with bold spirals of deep blue ink.

"Regan is it?" scoffs the husky antlered fey in response to the address. "That was less than a kind way to address my birds," he says sternly. "It's not their fault you journey on Waters of Menehune."

"Well it was less than kind of them to be a distraction with all the noise, so I guess there's plenty of fault to go around. We have to figure out the least damning option of the choices Queen Niadra provided us with, and fey have a bit of a reputation for being... let's say, cunning. Far moreso than most people. So tensions are a bit high at the moment, you understand," Regan replies. His tone, his stance, all being kept neutral to the best of his abilities. This fey is an unknown, and while Regan isn't willing to lie to him (or apologize - they're just birds), he is mindful of the information offered as this unknown fey may not be trustworthy.

The bird flutters off the fey's hand, back to the trees, and fey looks over at Regan standing in the moonlight, his gaze appears to be one of interest, but otherwise is hard for Regan to read.

REGANThe muscular fey lets out a rough chuckle, low and gravelly, as one of his birds flutters down onto his shoulder. The bird cocks its head, its throat swelling as it mimics Regan’s voice perfectly, down to the same intonation and cadence.

"Cunning...Tensions are a bit high..."

The bird tilts its head the other way, then continues in an entirely different voice—silky, measured, and unmistakably noble.

"One does wonder what the Queen whispered to them...A private audience?..."

The fey clicks his tongue, brushing a hand down the bird’s feathers as it hops along his arm. He doesn’t look at Regan—his gaze is set on the shifting trees, listening to the wind.

"Aye, tensions. Choices. Least damning paths." His smirk is thin, sharp. "The Queen sings to you, and the lords come scurrying. Heh," He scoffs with a bitter chuckle. "Must’ve been a fine tune. Sounds like you’ve got a few nobles who don’t like being left out of a fine song. You step into the River, the River Court expects to feel the ripples."

Another bird flutters down from the canopy and lands beside the first, its throat flexing before it lets out another eerily perfect mimicry, this time mockingly clipped, impatient, regal.

"The audacity...Did she not think we’d notice?...We we not called."

Yet another bird lands and speaks in a commanding tone in a similar voice to the first, "Find Rookstem and his birds!..."

The old weathered fey finally looks back at Regan, his expression dry and amused.

"They don’t like what they weren’t invited to, and now they want to hear the music secondhand. So they come looking for old Rookstem, hoping his birds were listening. Hoping I’ll let them pick through the echoes."

The birds laugh, a chittering sound that turns into scattered voices, all mimicked in the noble’s same tone.

"The audacity. The audacity. Did she not think—did she not think—"

Rookstem absently flicks his wrist, sending the birds flitting back into the trees. He shifts his weight onto his gnarled walking staff, his expression still unreadable.

"And you? You’re just hoping the chorus don’t call for blood."

His voice lowers slightly, taking on a rasped, knowing edge.

"But you lot keep thinking in mortal ways. You ask which choice is ‘least damning.’" He gestures to the trees, the ever-moving wilds, the untamed water. "Fey don’t think like that. We don’t pick the smallest fire—we pick the one that burns prettiest."

Regan hears the rustling of unseen wings as Rookstem flashes a grin and steps back toward the shadows.

"So go on, then. Dance to your tune. But don’t look to me for a kinder song."

Many birds, still hidden among the branches, repeat his words in their scattered, layered voices.

"Dance to your tune. Dance to your tune. Don't look to me—don't look to me—for a kinder song."