The den was cold and unadorned. Jerrun had few friends and no need for creature comforts. Whenever he entertained guests, either from within the Umberwood or abroad, he used the Council’s official meeting chambers. The head of the Council wasn’t in the habit of inviting Arboreals to his personal quarters, so tonight was unusual in that way.
A Rattlebark hunched over by the weight of the many rings he’d lived, Jerrun had huge, protruding eyes, and long flat fingers and toes. His pale, bald skin hung loose on his bones like a wrinkled sheet. A robe woven from blue-grey moss draped from his sagging shoulders, frayed where it dragged on the floor. The robe was a necessary second skin, his own failing to keep what little warmth he generated from escaping.
A gnarled leg of petrified wood served Jerrun as both a staff and a crutch. The wood had turned pale white over the rings, color drained from it like from its owner. On the top was a knot like a clenched fist worn to almost reflective smoothness. Below that was a band equally worn, and together they marked the habitual placement of Jerrun’s clutching hands. The staff was heavy, and most of the time it was unclear who was carrying whom, but he was never seen without it.
Jerrun sat with his knees crossed in the center of his living room, his staff laid before him. The floor grew no moss, no grass, no fern. Petrified, rigid, and cold, it was about as forgiving as he was. His eyes were closed, but fluttered open to the sound of rapping at his door. Rising without surprise to greet the late visitor, he tapped his way to the entrance and whisked aside the doorweave.
A fluttering, jittering countenance appeared there. Jerrun recognized Brace Swiftspur’s Rush immediately. She attracted and employed a quirky, rebellious sort that Jerrun detested. Still, it wasn’t the visitor he’d expected. He looked at the hovering creature disdainfully and waited, wringing his staff.
“Message for you, for Jerrun—excuse me—for the Head of the Council of Elders. Sorry for the disturbance, sorry about that.” Nevel flitted about anxiously.
Jerrun made a dramatic show of his irritation, tensing his grip on his staff and inhaling loudly. He turned and hobbled back into the center of the room. “Well?” he said, waving the messenger to follow, “What is the message?”
Nevel flew into the den and calmed down. He relayed the details of Brace’s request.
“Interesting,” Jerrun said at the conclusion. He pointed to the back of the room, offering some nectar to the lip-licking Rush. They exchanged a wordless tense regard for one another as Nevel drank. When he was done, Nevel returned to the Elder and waited for his response.
“Tell her that the request is denied. The Council will no longer be moved by requests from her family. If she still seeks my counsel she may see me in private. That is all.” Jerrun rapped his way back to the entrance where he ushered the messenger out the door.
The Rush barely nodded farewell before darting away, but his flight was cut short. As Jerrun stood there watching, Nevel was snapped up mid-flight by the gaping mouth of a shrouded figure.
Jerrun raised an eyebrow, “Tell me you didn’t just eat him.” The Elder knew reality couldn’t be undone, even if he demanded it, but he held to hope anyway.
The shrouded figure was virtually invisible in the darkness of the wood, though he stood in the open. He wore a cowl that hung low, obscuring most of his face and covering the rest in shadow. His lips parted in a smile, exposing bright, glistening teeth that seemed to glow by contrast. A feathery tuft stuck out pointedly from his mouth. The interloper strode forward lightly and let himself into the Elder’s den without an invitation. He slid by Jerrun as easily as a shadow sliding on a wall.
Inside, Jerrun asked, “You were listening?” He was uncharacteristically uneasy with the intruder, but doing his best not to show it.
“Yes, I was listening,” he said. His words were surrounded by soft whispers, echoes before and after like others were in the room advising him what to say and repeating him after he’d said it. Even in the relatively well-lit room the intruder remained cloaked in darkness, the details of his face obscured.
“Then you know also, that I shut down the request. Why kill the messenger?” Jerrun inquired, perturbed.
“Because you will have the meeting. Announce publicly that there is no reason to investigate. Remove curiosity. Nip it in the bud so to speak,” the creature seemed satisfied, and nodded to himself.
Jerrun looked away from the creature as he argued, “You don’t think that’ll incite more interest? Brace is a powerful voice in the community. Compassion for her and her daughter since Gammel’s untimely fall makes her a poor choice for an adversary. She could become a problem.”
The odd Arboreal slowly nodded. “Precisely the point,” he said. “This is an opportunity to defuse her completely. Show her to everyone as the hysterical mother. Give her sympathy, but eliminate her support.”
After some consideration, Jerrun decided the idea had some merit. “And what of the lately dined-on messenger?”
To that, the cowled figure raised his head revealing the mottled, swirling fur on his face. Two bright amber eyes opened, and he said, “Messengers die sometimes.”
So that was it, Jerrun thought. If Nevel was brought up, Jerrun would have to deal with it alone. He couldn’t plead ignorance, because he was going to send his own Rush in reply. But there were lots of lies, small and large, that could explain why he wouldn’t trust Nevel to take his response back to Brace. Not ideal. But really, who would question him? Jerrun stopped considering it with a dismissive shake of his head. “The Kudmoths have been seen in the Middens. Do I have anything to worry about?”
A third eye appeared above and between the other two, and the cloaked Arboreal said, “That’s why I’m here.”
