[color=goldenrod][h2][center]Terilu[/center][/h2][/color]

Terilu- Ascendent of the Third Caste and Called by the Reaching Hand, in Form of Baítudatu-Thumilie, of New Dawnlit- is really bothered right now. He's soaring up high in the sky, which usually lifts his spirits as much as it does his body, but the sun keeps getting in his eyes. He's nocturnal, as any rational being should be; he hates taking off during the day.

Especially this day, this summer day. The sun burns so brightly that Terilu is finding his way over the Emerald Forest half-blind. There's this vile human expression- "blind as a bat-" that is, like most human sayings, completely inaccurate. They should know better. Terilu's eyes are as sharp as theirs. All bat eyes are. Most of the time. When they are not being forced to climb up close to the sun at midday. Now.... well, right now, he really is as "blind as a bat," and blinder. The stupid expression has become true. Under the shadow of his wingspan, it makes him grin a little. 

The light is so distracting. Too much for wide, black eyes. His breed is meant to glide gently under moonlight and cloud-cover, letting those special breezes that seem to exist only at night carry him up aloft over the world. Travel during daytime- it is barbaric. It's running a marathon blindfolded, barefoot, and with hot fires burning all around you. How do the savage races do it? Viewed from up and over the treetops, up here in the wilding air with the birds, shimmering light looks to be bouncing off of every blade of grass and every leaf. It has made the atmosphere green. (A very unnatural color, in Terilu's mind. The grass in his part of the world is gray.) Batting his wings three times more, they lift him up further over the world and they ache from the heat and stress. He imagines them to be melting like wax. But there, look- he can see his targets. 

Even through the daylight blur, there's no mistaking the form of a Stoneclaw giant. Humans and elves already are giants, obviously, even the creatures they funnily call "dwarves" are giants in Terilu's mind, but then there's [i]this one[/i]. The one that even the others know to be a lumbering behemoth. That's an easy target to spot. And, as if to wrap it all up in a little bow, the giant is even singing a song. Ha! Literally announcing his name and quest for every ear in the forest to hear, in musical form. You really could not miss him, or the sound of him rising up over the leaves. Terilu hears...

"[color=gold]With Galaxor's might, Nemeia's divine grace, and Ivraan's arcane wit, 
To the tomb of undead, where they all just sit. 
In the shadows, we'll bicker, and in chaos, we'll slay, 
Galaxor, Nemeia, and Ivraan, are on their way.[/color]”

Wow, what a voice! Like a mountain took shape and learned language. Enjoyable. [color=goldenrod][i]Skeletons would like this song,[/i][/color] he thinks, [color=goldenrod][i]it vibrates the bones pleasantly.[/i][/color] So there is no pretense of difficulty as Terilu stalks the giant and his companions. They are slower by foot than he is by wing; no roots to trip you up or tree-trunks to stand in your way up in the sky, and that makes it a child's game to stay close to the wandering trio. The only worry: that they hear him rustling through the treetops when he lands behind them to rest in the branches, or when he leaps off again. Do they notice that pair of black eyes starring out from the green? [color=goldenrod][i]Does a chill go down your spines, travelers?[/i][/color]

It is not the first time Terilu has felt like a bird of prey. He has wanted to earn his keep in the Caravan, but those big, unreasonable human guards wouldn't allow him to raise up even so much as a skeleton to assist in the cooking of meals. What, he asked them, would it hurt us to have an extra set of hands at the galley? But most of the Wingless are like that. Close-minded. So he had to find a necromancy-free way to assist his new nest, and he found that in hunting. It's an Eratie tradition. Every night for a week, since they entered this strange wood, the lone bat has gone out soaring to capture fishes and little mammals he can bring back to the Caravan, for the others to eat. The poor animals can hardly see him coming from above the trees, and they cannot escape from the powerful flight of an Eratie in Form of Baítudatu-Thumilie. It is only with a strange sense of worry that, the last few nights, he has realized he truly enjoys the sensation of a squirrel finding itself trapped in his claws. It's intoxicating. Having that power over something's life. So similar to necromancy.

He's left these "donations" anonymously. Hunting's a very low-caste job, sadly- he'd be embarrassed for anyone to suspect that [i]he[/i] was doing it. Only the head cooks of the Caravan know where the new supply of food is coming from. And Knossos.

Regardless. He is moving like a hunter now. 

Following the group, he lands high in a bizarrely tall, gnarled-looking grandfather of a tree. It stands, he can see peering downwards from the branches, right at the yawning mouth of a tomb. He had heard of the barrows in this wood, but didn't believe he'd be lucky enough to come across one. The trio he's been following have slowed now. They approach the tomb, and even from here Terilu can feel the energy coming off of it. It radiates. To him, it is an inviting sensation, the promise of great gain. Every stone in that construct is soaked in the powers of undeath, and it blows outwards into the blighted land around itself, killing the grass and turning the trees to deadwood. Sights like that are a good sign to him, it means a place is rich for the kind of magic he practices- this tomb is a feast to Terilu. The others came here to destroy the undead, but he came to feed on it.

He scutters out to the furthest-reaching branch of the grandfather tree, keeping a tab on the the others from above. They're watching the entrance, not quite entering yet. Ilyana, some sea-traveler who might be a human or might be an elf- Terilu has trouble telling the difference, and she looks a little like both, just like that boy she's always looking out of the corner of her eyes- has joined them. Oh, he wants to join them too. His claws already loosen up out of the grooves they were digging into the bark, eager to release, jump down and announce his presence to this adventuring throng, as a nest-mate and an ally. But it's hard. He is hesitating, because they aren't Eratie. Necromancy isn't normal and natural to them. What'll they say when they see him trying to-

Another new voice interrupts his anxiety, saying "[color=B0C4DE]There's no telling what kind of undead lurk here, but the information Athulwin got noted that something talked to the other people who came by here. If there's any chance the same thing approached us, we could at least try to see if-[/color]"

Knossos! The cold, smart voice of Knossos! Good. Good. That's a blessing from Ad'itie herself, his appearing at this hour. This man is the one Wingless who would understand what necromancy is all about. The beauty of it, the artistry. A friend. He glows with dark magics himself, not unlike the stones and air of this wonderful place in front of the tomb.

Terilu sees no need to hide anymore. He can sense an undead approaching, and he knows the others must hear it. He leaps down from the tree, letting his wings catch air and glide him gently down to the dead grass. The soft 'thump' as he touches earth is an announcement of his arrival. He strides up to the group. Dreamwalker will understand why he wants to join them. Maybe he'll be an advocate, as he was when Terilu "accidently" bestowed the powers of undeath on that one wagon. Not everyone has forgotten about the Undead Wagon Incident. It still lurks in the bushes behind the Caravan sometimes, when it thinks nobody is watching. It's got wooden legs now. Who gave it wooden legs? [i]What[/i] gave it legs? Doesn't matter. Terilu approaches the group, just as Nemeia the self-proclaimed cleric finishes giving some motivational speech he's sure isn't important and that Ilyana girl is asking some questions he doesn't care about. 

"[color=goldenrod]Hi,[/color]" he says, interrupting them all. "[color=goldenrod]Hope you don't mind another companion. I am [i]Terilu[/i], Ascendent of the Third Caste and Called by Reaching Hand, in Form of... you know what, it's not important. My full name is longer than the time you've all spent standing here. And that is, if you'll here me say it, way too long- look, don't you hear it?"[/color] He paused, and just on time, the creaking and cracking sound of the walking dead starts up again. "[color=goldenrod]An undead approaches. I am going to help you. Don't argue, there's no more time for the rigors of debate. Only rigor mortis! Ha-ha.[/color]"

He turns to the tomb, where something is slowly coming out of the arched entrance way. It's hard to see- but it looks skeletal to Terilu, something made up all of bones and wrapped in winding sheets. The sheets it was buried in, he's sure. It has at it's bony hip a scabbard, and from the scabbard it has drawn a sword that looks as ancient and menacing as it does. In its eye sockets, instead of eyes, two pale blue lights glow. It is dead, and yet alive. A thrill goes down Terilu's spine. What a wonderful thing.

It has stopped just at the mouth of its home, right under the shade of the stone archway. It does not dare to step out into the sunlight. And Terilu feels that with one long, bone hand, it is gesturing to them. [i]Come closer,[/i] it seems to be saying in his mind. [i]Let us parlay.[/i] He doesn't know if the others can hear it or not, but Terilu takes the liberty to answer. "[color=goldenrod]Greetings!,[/color]" he calls out to the skeleton. He speaks in the common tongue so that the others can hear what he's saying, but it is purely his magic that communicates his intent to the skeleton. "[color=goldenrod]I am Terilu, Ascendent of... doesn't matter. We have come here to your home because-[/color]"

The skeleton speaks over him. It's voice is the rasping of bones on a gravestone, the dryness of the desert, and the coldness of a long-abandoned body. It is something felt more than heard. "Kú nwa pinychi psú kúúm ghu kú psú j’iiw," it rasps, "nyip kwii suptuuskuny snú!" Terilu blinks. It's not a language he knows, but somehow, perhaps through his necromantic connections, the meaning is instinctively obvious to him. He translates for the others:

"[color=goldenrod]He says that we must leave the Forest. He says that it belongs to him and the other undead, and that- that they will keep bringing plague on us and our camp until we have left.[/color]" The sickness. Is that what it is?

"[color=goldenrod]I don't get the feeling he actually wants to fight us, but he really does think this forest is his.[/color]" He expects the Forest does not agree, as willful as it's shown itself to be. Dipping a little into his memories of necromantic theory, he adds, "[color=goldenrod]Some undead are like this. They don't altogether realize they're dead, or they don't care. They think they can keep ownership over the things they had when they were alive. Him and the others probably used to rule this forest ages ago. We're like invaders to them.[/color]" He pauses, takes a breath, stretches out his wings.

"[color=goldenrod]I vote we rush in and unmake them. If they think we're invaders, let us be invaders.[/color]"