[center][color=goldenrod][h1][i]Valley of Kings and Queens[/i][/h1][/color][/center] [hr] Things had been uneasy for a few days for Synn. She had given them the names of two zenii, Wiktym and Slouwe, that had shared the notion of the Beast Queen with her and given her inspiration enough to build her own tale around it. Her meeting with the renowned Masol had been a hurried and confusing affair - the muscular zene had barely looked at her, and cordially welcomed her to the larger group before going back to armwrestling another zene she did not know. Serrat, the zene who dragged her in front of Masol, had taken Gaher and the zena who tailed him and left the camp again. Synn had originally thought that was it, but the large crowd around the three blackstones whispered and stared wherever she went. Despite this, there was always at least one other zenii keeping an eye on her, urging her to join various social activities or tale-tellings. She was courted several times by both sexes to sample each others bodies, once in a group. The only thing that she wasn't allowed to do was leave. The one time she tried to walk straight out of the camp towards the river, two burly zene grabbed her shoulders and politely but brusquely turned her around and said Masol would love it if she stayed. Their tone implied it was not optional. With that very living wall hiding in the sidelines, waiting to guide her back to camp, Synn settled for a quiet existence, taking in the people and the sights during her stay. There were yareners, who used sharpened sticks and scavenged bone and stone to mend discarded or torn [i]yarene[/i] into new clothing. They stripped the dead or willing of their garments and added the scavenged cloth to other clothes, sewed in bits of bark or other ornamentation, and caked them with different rudimentary dyes to color them in experimental colors. There were mudders, who gathered wet mud and clay and shaped it into pots of all sizes to be used by everyone else to gather, store and collect. There were groupers, who taught the zenii way to forest scraps and hair and grass, making them stick together in lightweight baskets, flat boards and large shelters from the rain using nothing but their hands. There were fishers, who stood in the shallower parts of the river to capture fish with hand and basket. And there were foresters, who had until recently ventured into the forest to learn about the world, animals, the woods, and pick berries. Now they were part of the people just sitting around, refusing to go back out into the woods. Synn found herself drawn to this crew, partly out of curiosity, but also a niggling shame that was proof of the power of her words. It didn't take many questions to find them, but there mere act of asking others where to find a forester earned a scoff of distaste. Tempers ran high, even if no one made an open fuss. Eventually Synn found herself at the edge of a group of frolicking zenii, seven zena and five zene, bundled up and talking about different animals while toying with each other's hair. They looked rougher than most others, their clothes torn and their garments stained with grass and wood. Synn had barely shimmied up to their little gathering before a gawking zena raised her voice at her. "Before you ask, yes, we are foresters, no we aren't going out. No, we don't want to just sit around." Synn cleared her throat, stopping in her tracks as all eyes turned to her. She tucked lock of hair behind her right ear, shuffling awkwardly. "My name is Synn.. I'm a tale-teller. May I sit?" She said a little more demure than she had intended. There was a brief silence before one of the zene raised his arm to her. "I'm Whyte." Synn sat down beside him, and his arm crooked around her shoulder to pull her into his warm embrace. She shifted to relax against him. It was all the group needed to relax themselves, going back to idle murmurs among themselves. "You said you don't wish to sit around," Synn began in an attempt to formulate her thoughts. She welcomed the warmth of another, even though she expected him to push her away soon. "Is it the Beast Queen that keeps you in the camp?" Silence followed once more. Brief tension in Whyte, but he did not move. Someone snickered, and the group soon howled like mocking wolves with laughter. Whyte raised his hand to ruffle her hair and flick at her ear in teasing. The gawking zena that had first 'welcomed' her took tone to explain with condescending trills in her voice. "Yes, we fear the great and mighty queen of the woods. She who bucks her snout in the ground and grinds her horns against the bark. She whose droppings smell particularly foul." "You are making a joke of me," Synn reasoned with a tight-lipped frown. Her declaration gave her a soft hum of sympathy from another zena, who abandoned her heat partner - much to his dismay - to shuffle across the group and drape herself against Synn in comfortable assurance. She wrapped her arms around her as the man played with her hair. Given the last few days, being accepted so handily was intoxicating. "You must forgive Koulde," Whyte offered and gestured to the speaking zena. "There is nothing she enjoys more than making others miserable." The zena responded with a gesture of her hands that Synn hadn't seen before, but given the amusement of the group, she could guess it wasn't polite. “Forgiven and forgotten,” Synn professed quickly, earning a few snickers and a challenging glare from the zena known as Koulde, who did not seem to particularly enjoy being forgiven. “So-... if you’re not scared of the Beast Queen, wh-” “Why do we do nothing?” Koulde interjected, apparently having been waiting for a moment to cut in with her consistently down putting tone. “What reason could there be?” Synn thought on this for longer than she cared to, the heat of bodies and the stares making it hard to focus, and the pressure of saying the right thing making her anxious. “Uhm… Masol..?” A look around at the grim and displeased faces rolling their eyes collectively convinced her she got it right. Whyte was the first to verbally confirm it. “Mmh. Who else? He and his closest will not let us risk going out there until they have found the source of the tale. Says we cannot lose more zenii - must make the Lady proud and look after each other.” “But why not simply leave? Does everyone fear the word of Masol here?” Koulde scoffed softly. “Fear? He is not a scary zene. Strong? Yes. Good with words? Yes. But he is too gentle, too busy making zenii like him. He is d-..” “Koulde,” another zene interjected, growling from his seat. “I have told you not to diminish his name before. If you do not like him, go challenge him or lay with his favorite zenii, or something. He is doing this for us.” There was a soft sigh among a few of the group, and Koulde moved her strict gaze from Synn to glare daggers at the zene instead. “Masol is just a zene,” Whyte declared idly by Synn’s side, a little lower. “What he wants is what the blackstones want. The zenii are scared of the forest, so Masol declares it is not safe. Did he decide first, or did he listen first? Does it matter? Zenii trust him, and he has many close friends with strength, skill and thought. When the matter is resolved, a decision will be made.” “What if you can never go back to the forest?” Synn followed up, her own mind spinning little intrigues out of what little she knew. It was a big enough question to draw the attention of the group back to her and Whyte. “He won’t say that. He and his friends are many things but they are not dumb.” He answered sharply, looking towards Koulde who smoldered with indignant frustration. “We will need the forest, for food and for materials. Even if he stops it now, he will allow it when our stores run low.” Synn pondered this in silence, simply humming a soft confirmation after a time. She had been searching for a reason she was blamed, why she was kept here, but it became ever more difficult to find one. “Did you say you were a tale-teller?” Koulde eventually shot in, eager to change the topic. Synn nodded politely. “Ohh, tell us a tale!” the zena sidled up against her cooed happily, reaching up to weave her hand around the belly-portion of Synn’s [i]yarene[/i], holding her close. Synn offered a soft smile to the group, pushing aside her selfish thoughts for the evening. The Blackbird would be a decent opener, she thought. “Of course. Let me tell you one of my favorites.” [hr] [i][b]Blackbird[/b] Blackbird!' clamored I, 'Yes blackbird!' And so you came gently mocking Carrion crow - carrion crow - carrion crow! What could there be more purely low? Deep into that darkness sing Reciting and reciting with my cry Teary carrion crow - teary carrion crow The singer brought such sorrow I have dreamed of the songbirds And the crows never descanting A bird ever grieving - a bird ever grieving All my heart within me disbelieving On that day my soul grew peregrine That carrion, carrion roving Blackbird - blackbird - blackbird My heart shall wander backward [/i] [hr] Slouwe was dead. Synn hadn’t heard much more of Serrat, Gaher and Jem’s findings over the last few days other than the rumours washing through Masol’s blackstones like a wave crashing over the riverbank. A zena had killed him - a slaying despite the Lady’s words - with some freakish and cruel attack that had squeezed the life from his bones. When Serrat himself came a day later to fish her from the forester crew - who now were quite reluctant to see her go - he did so by grabbing her arm and telling her to follow. “Wiktym also named Slouwe as her source,” he mumbled in haste as he pulled her along. “Masol wants to see you.” That was all he gave her. She asked for more, but he remained tight-lipped, busying himself with greeting all the zenii they passed on the way as they walked through the sizeable camp consisting of more than the three blackstones it had when she first arrived. Old yarenes modified by skilled yareners had been tied to each blackstone pledging some manner of community with Masol. There were more than she could count poking up over the heads of zenii. Most of the valley had declared themselves to follow the wisdom of the zene first named by the Lady. Synn reminded herself of when she had first met Whyte, and his words on scarcity guiding the hands of leadership. How many zenii were simply hoping to offload their problems on another? They found Masol engaged in a wrestling brawl with another zene. Their yarenes were off, their bodies caked in slick mud, arms locked as they tried to push the other down with brute strength. Judging by the number of mud-covered zenii of both sexes crowding the test of martial ability, this tradition was becoming quite the popular social event. It certainly gave the thoughtful Synn time to study zene and zena alike. The contest barely lasted a moment longer than Synn’s arrival - Masol shifted his biceps and that pressure was too much for the other zene who was on the ground in the dirt in mere seconds. Masol squatted forcefully down on his chest and battered his torso with knocking pounds of his fists as a bullying declaration of victory - to the cheers and jeers of all present - before helping his competitor off the ground and giving him a reconciliatory hug. He was about to take on another challenger when he caught sight of Serrat. His breezy expression of carefree happiness vanished in an instant, and he shared a laugh with the crowd before excusing himself to head her way. Synn could not help but look down over his body. "Synn was it?" He questioned as he drew close, gesturing to a nearby footpath. "I need to wash by the river. Will you join me?" His hand extended to her, and she found herself putting her hand in before she had dared speak. The words got stuck in her throat and her heart beat hard in her ears. Shameful thoughts bid themselves awakened at his innocent offer, but any such matters were quickly put to rest when she realized Serrat followed them. The journey to the river should have been swift, but the muscular zene stopped at every little grouping along the way, grabbing arms and hugging and chuckling, ingratiating himself with each zenii he met with a boisterous laugh - even while caked in mud and not wearing his yarene. Synn began to feel embarrassed, for following him, like she was on display. Even though she said nothing and tried to hang back as much as she could, she could not deny eyes fell on her quite a bit for being Masol’s chosen walking partner. When they had finally made it to the river, where but a handful of other zenii were relaxing a distance away, Masol let go of her arm one last time and wandered into the shallowest part of the river, covering no more than the lowest parts of his thighs. “So. Forgive me for putting the matter off for so long. Some talks are best had in private.” He turned and said with a firm smile. Privacy was a strange concept for any zenii, no doubt the other bathers could hear every word spoken in this conversation, and one could barely whisper in a group without alerting everyone to the full contents of what was said. Still, this was as private as it could be without walking out into the forest or standing amidst the graves. Serrat made himself comfortable at the edge of the water while Masol continued. “Since you came freely, I hope you have not been mistreated. I know Serrat has a way with zenii that doesn’t suit everyone.” Serrat grunted a little huff of amusement, ripping a small reed from the ground to idly fold and bend. “No, I felt like I could not leave at first, but I’ve found some good camaraderie with the foresters.” Synn remarked back to them both as Masol began to wash himself in the water. As before, she found simple pleasure in watching his body work. “They do not fear the Beast Queen as the rumour goes, they take a lot of spite for everyone else’s sake.” “Easier that way,” Serrat cut in between dragging his reed between his lips. “Stops others from coming up with wild theories about what’s out there if they have someone to blame.” “But now we have a real name, don’t we?” Masol asked as he rubbed his arm free of mud and clay, a long slow process that required many dips of water. “Mmh. Slouwe was part of a blackstone led by a zene named Lonam,” Serrat continued, and Synn realized this may yet be a long conversation - though not why she was part of it. She slid down to sit beside Serrat, and pushed her feet into the cool water. “The zena who did him in is the one who started the rumours, according to his people. Nimueh. She was part of his blackstone, came out of the forest one day babbling about the Beast Queen. They tried to bring her to us - that’s when she slew him. Just like that, they said. Like it was nothing. She called on the woods themselves to crush him dead.” Synn considered death, and the depravity it must take to kill another so willfully. Someone from the same blackstone. Nimueh must be a truly bleak-hearted kinslayer. She imagined her on a throne of branches, cackling like the blackbird over the death of her kin. There was a story in there. Her thoughts were jumbled when Masol continued. “Very concerning. If she can command the woods then there might be legitimacy to this Queen after all. What if she has given her life to some wretched spirit, like the Lady spoke of? Perhaps this Beast Queen is our first challenge - an evil like none the Lady has come upon before?” “The Lady did say she meant for us to battle evil.” Serrat murmured noncommittally. “Do you intend to keep the foresters tied down forever?” Synn interjected, earning a glance from both of the men and quickly regretting interrupting their discussion. After a few moments of awkward silence, Serrat took it upon himself to reply. “No,” he answered. “We have swept away the clouds around the rumour. Keeping them cooped up much longer will hurt our food reserves. Not to mention a few of them are quite good trackers. Perhaps this Nimueh will keep close, and in that case, we’ll track her down.” “Mmh, yes.” Masol agreed, slowly sinking himself deeper into the water. “No, what we need is to make it clear that this zena - Nimueh, was it? - spread fear out of malicious thought. She tried to slay our minds with, and when this failed she slew her friend and fled into the unknown.” “Didn’t you just say there might be something to this Queen?” Synn argued with a frown, leaning back to plant both hands in the summer-warm grass. “I trust my foresters,” Masol countered with brusque confidence. “We will tell them the truth and they will use their senses. If there is a dangerous ruler of the woods then sitting and learning nothing of it will not help us. We must verify our safety so that we do not bother the Lady with the fantasies of a single kinslayer. For those that need not venture into the forest, it should do enough to know there is a crazy zena out there lurking in the trees. It will make this threat understandable, but it will also keep them away from danger.” Synn frowned to herself, fishing a lock of white hair from her face and tucking it behind her long ear. The reasoning made sense, she supposed. Between stolen glances of Masol, she glanced over towards the woods, deathly dark in the evening light. What mysteries lurked out there, she wondered. A slayer and a queen. “That is why I wished to speak with you, Synn. People who know of you say your skill in crafting a tale is without equal.” Masol continued. “Oh-..” she remarked with a quick reddening of her cheeks. “I don’t know about that… I just enjoy the possibilities… The thoughts of what may be and what has been.” “Beautifully said,” Masol returned with a warm smile from the river. It was enough to send shivers through her body. “I want you to stay with us, Synn. Help us craft this truth of Nimueh and her beloved beast into a tale worthy both of purpose and of action.” “It will seem more convincing, coming from you. You have only been with us a few days.” Serrat cut in with a more pragmatic argument. It wasn’t necessary. Synn had her eyes on Masol, and unbeknownst to the two men she had already begun crafting a tale in her head as she’d listened. She couldn’t help it. The tales came easy to her. “I don’t know,” she lied. She felt anxiety bubble at the back of her neck as she tried to downplay her decisionmaking. “I don’t think anyone would listen to me. It would take very long to spread such a tale.” “That is where you are wrong, Synn.” Masol stood up and turned towards her. Almost clean now. His hands extended in open invitation, and after a brief hesitation she stood up to walk out into the river with him. His firm hands settled on her arms, tugging her closer slowly. “I will give you whatever audience you desire,” he offered. Her own arms lifted to touch at his chest, her eyes roaming over his well-toned body. She heard Serrat shuffle to his feet and walk away, but did not have it in her to look away. It was difficult to breathe in this handsome zene’s presence. “If this zena’s beast is a ruler of the woods, then I am the ruler of the valley. And I need you.” Synn pushed her lips to his, a need borne of constant touching and cuddling in the forester’s group, a naked body, a handsome smile, and a feeling of being wanted. Life could be good here, her heart told her. In the arms of the First King. [hr] [hider=Summary] Elf City (more like a collection of black pillars), present time. Synn the story-teller is a caged bird in Masol’s camp. They let her do anything except leave, and the social dynamics involved in keeping her in the camp only threaten violence once. She finds herself walking around, observing how elf culture and tech is coming along. Eventually she settles down with the foresters (some of whom are from the first elf post), and finds out that they’re not actually refusing to go into the forest. Elf culture and politics and cuddling. A poem-tale by Synn follows. A few days later, Synn is collected by Serrat and they go to get Masol as well - who is aggressively not wearing clothes because he is a big strong attractive man who dont need no clothes (actually he is wrestling but ok). They talk about Nimueh and how Synn is now off the hook because Nimueh is an evil elf murderer who came up with this whole beast mama stuff. Masol is like “we can rule together baby, I just need u to lie for me real good”. Synn thinks with her genitals and joins forces with Masol. [/hider]