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Vaelus is nearly 800 years old, she should know better than to touch a relic of unknown providence.
And yet here she is, energy draining away from touching a profaned statuette of Sylandri.
Foolish. Stupid.
But how could she resist trying to collect this lost gift to her Mother? To have just a little bit more for her convent to protect. The Stone of Nightsong is the greatest gift left to all elves, but there are others to keep. This could have been one of them… if someone or something else hadn't twisted and desecrated it to take life instead of giving.
Maybe it still could be, if one of Vaelus's wiser sisters or brothers found it next, purified it.
Not that it really matters. Vaelus is still dying with no one to save her, nor witness her demise.
"Oh!"
Or maybe she will not die alone today.
"Ah, that's– hmmm," the newcomer hems and haws, coming to kneel beside her.
Rough and stained traveling clothes, long-sleeved and buttoned up tight with gloves, a battered pack looking unfortunately light on food for as far from people as they are, no visible weapon, not even the slightest bulge of a hidden knife, a wildly tangled mane of dark red curls, and a white mask upon their face with glowing points of blue light set too deep within the eye sockets to be actual eyes.
The figure's hands hover over Vaelus, not quite touching, yet she can feel the brush of the arcane in her scars from The War.
"Well aren't you a naughty one," they say, attention turning to the statuette, and Vaelus gets to witness the mask's lips form the words, flex in expression.
A flex of the masked person's fingers and a large knife of glass forms in their hand. The knife's blade is wedged beneath the statuette, used to leverage it into falling onto its side, revealing a pulsing, glowing rune beneath.
The pulses match Vaelus's slowing heartbeat. Fury burns in her, pure and clean, that someone would carve such maleficence into a symbol of life.
Flicking their hand, the glass knife becomes a bladed stylus. A stylus used to delicately carve more runes into the base of the statuette. Halfling runes, if Vaelus's eyes haven't failed her yet. Though what they say, she doesn't know. Can only hope they will save her.
The carving pauses.
"This is either going to save your life, or kill us both in the backlash. Are you fine if I finish it?" the masked figure asks Vaelus, entirely unconcerned by the chance of death, it seems.
"I… am Vaelus of… the Sisters of… Sylandri. I would know… the name of… the one who will kill me… or save me," Vaelus pants out, vision narrowing.
The mask grins. "Bolaire Lathalia, of the Panto. Not that you know what that is. A pleasure, my dear. Here's hoping we live."
The stylus traces a swirl, the sweep of a curtain (the close or the opening?), from the added runes to the first, blasphemous one.
Magic flares, burns through Vaelus's arcane scars once more.
Everything goes white.
"Well, that was exciting," Bolaire breathes out, sounding pleased with himself.
"...Yes. Thank you," Vaelus slowly responds, breaths coming easier and easier as she recovers.
"I'd ask why you touched the damn thing in the first place, but that seems a bit self evident," Bolaire observes, sat back indolently, glowing "eyes" on her.
"Is it safe to touch now?" Vaelus asks since Bolaire seems satisfied with his (correctly) assumed answer.
"Oh, I suppose. Though I'd still suggest at least gloves for a bit of distance just in case my work unwinds or has holes. I'm still learning how to place runes via carving," Bolaire carelessly answers with a shrug.
Strange. But it's rather easy to gather that Bolaire is a strange figure in general.
"...Would it bother you to help me bring this to the Mournvale? You clearly have knowledge of how to handle this that I do not, and I would very much like to bring this back to be properly cared for," Vaelus offers.
Bolaire's head tilts, a bird-like show of curiosity. "You'd wish for me to come along? I'm not an elf, nor do I have any reverence for a Shaper."
Vaelus shrugs. "As I said, your skills seem helpful. If you would do me and my sisters harm, then you will face me. And combat I know quite well."
Laughter, wild and maybe just a tinge bewildered, rings out.
"You're a strange one, Vaelus of the Sisters of Sylandri. I look forward to traveling with you," Bolaire agrees, grinning inhumanly wide.
"I feel the same way about you, Bolaire Lathalia of the Panto."