[center][b][color=slategray][h3]Athulwin[/h3][/color][/b]
[i]Addressing: [@Antediluvixen][/i]
[/center]

This isn't what Athulwin expected of a Beyonder. The tales of such creatures are, one can admit, scant and esoteric. He recalls a description of an 'errant spirit' given in the [i]Annals of Wandering Brother Theobald[/i]: "Twas like soft sprinkling rain at night, felt and not seen, known by the sensation it leaves one with and not by its form. It chilled my skin like frost." Those in the Old Marshes who believe in Beyonders as real, living creatures always cite this as a 'sighting' of one. Athulwin has just this morning joined the ranks of those who believe in Beyonders; and he does not see anything akin at all to Brother Theobald's Monster before him. This laughing woman, this half-fox. It had in its hands- and it [i]has[/i] hands, where Beyonders shouldn't- something like a metal wand. But it put it down.

No, this, whatever else it is, is a person. The words it speaks are nonsense to him; yet Athulwin is one who studies languages, and he knows that what is only sound to him may carry deep meaning to someone else.

Still holding his chain, he tries, at first, some of the other mundane languages he knows. Maybe they do hbe a middle ground with this odd stranger after all. He tries Sinverish, Middle Dwarven, an old elvish tongue, and a few broken words in the Dinnin's language. But whatever else she may think, it's clear the not-a-Beyonder understands these no more than she understood Athulwin the first time.

"[Color=red]Fine[/color]," he says aloud, unnecessarily. "[color=red]I bet there is one language you do speak after all.[/color]"

He drops his chain to the ground, letting it coil up like a smoldering serpent. 

"[i]Peace.[/i]"