The Crevice
The barbarian takes in all she has heard and witnessed. An upbringing among Gnolls taught many traits most civilized folk can barely touch upon, the kind of wild, innate, split decision-making that comes from a sniff at the air, or a reflex reaction to a scent carried in the breeze, the swift judgement of what is foe, friend or food. No wonder your fuse is short.
Jeovanna senses that Sela is not fearful of your pack’s numbers or appearance here. She is quite at ease now, and this is concerning you. On a more positive note, you suspect no deception in her words, though you could safely assume that her perspective on life is many miles from anything you'd consider familiar. She is however, in other ways much like you, formed of a past dictated by environmental needs, and what it takes to survive.
Otiroth ponders other things, academia, observations written on old scrolls perhaps, can he recollect anything about a people such as this? Not much immediately comes to mind, though you do recall some passing passage about white-eyed folk deep in the northern mountains. It was written in the account of… damn, what was his name? Pearly-eyed offshoots of various race’s old blood. Branches on a kind’s tree, where most relish in Marix’s sun, and a rare few exist in darkness like a family tree’s roots. A balance, for a tree without roots will surely fall…
Having considered Otiroth's request for information about what lies ahead, she says, “that will depend on decisions I can not make. The fractures are many, and different to all.” Well, that wasn't very helpful, until she smiles a little towards the sorcerer and mentions that, “both fiends and undead have soured this place, but you have witnessed that already. Only Immel’s stone is truly protected from them.”
Pitchling, the name snaps into Metea's head. Pitchlings! An ancient race of elves who very nearly met with extinction during Alath’s last eruption, a damn long time ago. There is little to recall from the texts on this matter, but what you do remember is how an agreement was made between their elders and a being from the Feydark, an underworld equivalent on the Faerie plane. The specifics of the deal that was made however, is a mystery.
What you do know is that such Pitchlings are skilled in magic, and like most fey do not pay much attention to laws or social obligations. Sela is clearly connected to the nature of the earth's darkest depths. It almost makes sense to find her here. Beneath that dark nest of hair, did you just notice a slightly pointed ear? Ah yes, an elven bloodline for sure.
There was more to remember though. That's right! They have their own kind of hellish rebuke, which is to die for, literally. Most can never be the same again having slain a Pitchling. In fact, such fools almost certainly spend the rest of their lives blind, if they avoid an immediate obliteration. Not surprising that they can muster a magical darkness with ease. The kind of dense blackness that sadly, would drown out even Carthum's gift of pious glowing light. Should you meet more of these folk, less hospitable, keeping a distance is highly recommended. This little lady, a Pitching, is much like you. Rarely seen nor trusted by commoners, of devious and questionable background, and most importantly not to be underestimated!
“Darkspring,” she says to herself. “That pleases me. I do hope you find what you seek here. It has been a long time since Immel has had such… interesting visitors.”
“I must go now,” she finally says, joining her hands together and stepping back into the dark.
It's pretty clear now that you have left the mines. The cracks in the earth have led you to something… else, but such thoughts are broken by a low and gruff voice.
“Darorf, jaghagga… where? Where am I?”
The dwarf’s lips are moving. He blinks, and looks up to the priest almost pleadingly.
