2019-11-27 - Territory Disputes

The moon is a dark circle in the sky lit only by Earthshine as August and Finch make their way to spot where the ash tree fell and they met the dryads. The wind off the ocean drives the clouds in the sky and whips their hair about as they get out of August's car.

They've coaxed the saplings along to two years of growth; enough that the young trees should be able to manage the rest on their own. (August planted more than just the three, of course, scattering them so they'd all have space.)

And now, they wait for the dryads to show up and confirm their end of things is done. August is looking better from that large group Dream he was dragged into, but could still stand to take a day or two off work. "Had a chance to talk to de la Vega some more?" he asks, glancing at Finch between scanning the trees for the dryads.

Finch pats one of the saplings lightly on the trunk. "Yeah. We met for coffee and it went better. Asked each other some questions. It went all right. He might come to Thanksgiving. I hope he does, even just for a few minutes. This is pretty tough on him, considering his history."

She is a little less birdlike without the colorful hair, but she looks more her age at least. She's in jeans and a sweater under a puffy jacket, with her hiking boots on.

"Thanksgiving?" August raises his eyebrows, honestly surprised. But maybe he shouldn't be; who else did de la Vega have to celebrate it with? "Did you, ah, wanna do it a little more low key so he doesn't run off?" Because, well, let's face it--Ruiz is not what anyone can call a social butterfly, nor does he strike August as the sort to be comfortable in a friends-and-family style gathering. "I can drop off a goose for you and him and Dove, and Ignacio and Itzhak and I can fuck off, maybe go eat with one of Itzhak's girls..." He trails off, waiting to see what Finch thinks of that.

Finch shakes her head in the negative. "No. I want my real family there. If he wants to be in my life, the rest of you come with the package," she notes with a faint smile. She arches a brow. "How many girls does Itzy have now? That boy is like a walking chick magnet." She chuckles.

August gives Finch a long look. "Okay," he says, and nods. He thinks of the elephant in the room (the one bearing a big Circus-style 'Itzhak and Ruiz are a thing' banner), decides that they'll just have to weather that storm when it hits. So for now he just smiles and says, "Should be fun. I'll bring two geese, and all the herbs, vegetables, and fruit Ignacio needs."

They both feel it before the hear it; perhaps the dryad's ichor has sensitized them to their presence somehow, or maybe they're attuned to them in a way they weren't before meeting them the first time. But they know, a few seconds before the three creatrues emerge from the undergrowth, that they've arrived, as certainly as they can sense injury and map the flora and fauna of the immediate area around them.

It seems to be the same three as before: one with orange eyes, one with gray-green, and one with a single, yellow eye. All roughly centaur-shaped, but formed entirely of roots, vines, and branches.

"We have upheld our end of the bargain," the yellow-eyed one announces. "And have come to see that you have upheld yours."

Finch grins at the list of things August is willing to bring. "Iggy will be over the moon to be able to do a big shindig I think. And I think Gran will be really happy to have people in the house for a meal again. I think she's missed it a lot."

The dryads arrive and Finch feels them before she sees them. Her head turns, quick like a bird's, and zeroes in on the emerging creatures. She gives them a small smile, gesturing to the new growth trees, far more than promised, that they have planted and urged to grow. "As have we," she intones.

"Honestly wouldn't mind helping him cook," August asides to Finch. And then, they have company; he turns as Finch does, watching the three creatures emerge from the darkness of the forest proper. He moves a bit closer to Finch.

"We planted extra. Filled in where other storms have taken out too many." Okay, really they just did it because they could. The dryads aren't likely to care, he figures.

The dryads consider each of them as they speak, then begin to move among the saplings. The small trees bend to the dryad's hands when they reach out, grow another couple of inches, bulk up some, their needles fuller, their branches thicker.

They're some time in wandering about among Finch and August's handiwork. Eventually, they re-convene in front of the two of them.

"It is well," the gray-green eyed one says. Their tone sounds grudging.

"It is well," the orange-eyed one agrees, less reluctantly.

The yellow-eyed one nods. "It is well." The hold out one long, knotty arm, on which rests two gleaming chunks of what seems to be amber, each about the size of a shooter marble. "Our thanks, that you keep the pact." It looks a little sticky, like it might be hardened ichor.

OH GOD NOT MORE ICHOR! Finch's eyes go pretty darn wide. "Is that, uh, what you bled when we made the pact?" she asks, concerned that if she has that stuff, she might not be able to stop herself from taking it. Because face it, that was amazeballs and then some.

August is trying to strike a balance between not wanting to touch it and not being a bad diplomat. It's tricky. He manages to not lean back, at least.

"Our blood," the orange-eyed one confirms. "This is how all such pacts are sealed between sylvan and dryad." They say this like they're surprised Finch isn't aware of that.

"Right," August says. "Ah, here." He pulls a handkerchief out of his pocket, folds it in half, holds out his hand with the doubled-up cloth covering it. The dryad drops the two chunks of amber into August's now-safe hand, and he wraps them up neatly. "Thanks," he says, trying not to sound and look as awkward as he feels. He gives Finch a sideways glance. They need to sort out how to get rid of this stuff.

The dryads turn to go. "We will come for you when we have need again," the gray-green eyed one says over their shoulder.

Finch looks relieved that she doesn't have to touch it. She looks to the creatures, studying them for a long moment, trying to memorize how they look so she can recount it later. She's a naturalist, and these things are truly of nature.

"I'm glad we were able to work this out," she says with a small smile. "Take care."

August watches the dryads go, not moving until they're out of sight and sound, and Spirit sense. Only then does he relax. "Well. That could have been a lot worse." He looks down at the cloth-wrapped, sticky lumps in his hand. With regret, he says, "We probably need to just bury these," and gives Finch an apologetic look. He too sure wouldn't mind another hit of the ichor, but is well aware it's not a great idea.

He sighs, looks around them. "Wonder if we should take it back across--Itzhak might know a good spot to put it. Or someone to, uh, give it to."

"Might be a better idea to take it out on one of Iggy's boat tours and dump it over the side. Less likely to be able to find it again that way," Finch notes. Then she frowns. "Ok maybe not, we might wind up with an entire beach full of amorous sharks or something if we do that."

August makes a face. "Or a bunch of crazy, mutated fish." Or crazy, mutated plants. Or...

He shakes his head, nods back towards the truck and starts that way. "We'll talk to Itzhak, maybe--"

A blur of motion has August staggering into a tree with a grunt. Finch barely has time to register what's happened--someone has attacked him--before they're coming at her. They seem to be dressed in, of all the things, some sort of ghillie-suit, and have a knife in one hand. She can see bare legs and feet under the hanging bits of bark and lichen and spruce boughs, and to her Spirit sense this certainly feels like a human. (No injury on August, though, so his matter Aspect must have absorbed the attack.)

And here they come at Finch, with that knife...growling.

Finch is startled by the attack on August, then the person (is it a person? Feels like a person.) is coming at her. The knife glints and she slashes out a hand, sending a burst of Spirit to snap the wrist of the person, the one holding the knife. "You picked the WRONG people to target," she states calmly.

The person in the suit cries out, the knife falling from their hand as their wrist turns at an impossible angle. August straightens, making sure he hasn't dropped their precious and dangerous gift from the dryads, stares. "What the Christ," he says.

He doesn't see the second person in a suit, taking aim with a spear some twenty feet away between two large shrubs, but Finch does. It's hard to tell who they're aiming for given the angle. Finch? August? It's a handmade looking spear, with a wooden point only, but still sharp and deadly.

Finch growls, low in her throat, as she turns to spot the spear wielder hiding in the bushes. Dumb place to hide from a Spiritualist. She gestures and the bush reaches to grab the spear from the person with an angry rustle of leaves. She's gonna have to walk this one back to the House soon too.

The spear-wielder is mid-throw when Finch commands the shrub to grab at it. The branches wrap around the weapon and their arm, yanking both, pulling the spear free easily. This person hisses in irritation and makes a gesture with their hand, and the branches Finch has commanded to grab at them tremble and partially unwind. Not all the way, though, which angers the spear-wielder, and the yank out a long, machete-like knife and begin hacking at the shrub to get free.

August sighs, exasperated, and flicks his fingers. The machete falls to the ground in pieces, blade warped and twisted, handle cracked into pieces. The person makes a frustrated sort of sound, and then whistles. The one who dropped their knife rolls over, takes it up in their other hand, teeth bared under the hood of their suit.

In response to the spear-wielder's whistle, a third person joins the fray. But they don't rush in or attack like the other two. Finch sees them coming first; they're tall, and move with a languid, casual grace. They have a long bow slung at their back, and a knife on a belt. They're suited, like the others, but bare-legged and barefoot. "Hold," they say. A woman's voice. She raises a hand, and the other two fall quiet.

"You better hold," Finch mutters, her hands at the ready, perhaps pondering setting chop chop on fire for hurting her bush friend. She will fix the bush when this is resolved. "Who the hell are you people?" she asks.

"You don't know?" she asks, sounding torn between amusement and surprise. She looks at August, or rather, the handkerchief in his hand. "I should have thought it would be obvious to you."

August is surprised by the woman's voice, turns so he can keep her and the other two in line of sight. He follows her gaze to the cloth-wrapped lumps of ichor, shifts his stance. "We didn't ask them for this."

"Of course you didn't," snaps the knife wielder, one hand on his wrist. A young man, by his voice. Maybe twenty. The spear-wielder, half-in and half-out of Finch's bush-friend, raises their chin, and the knife-wielder's wrist reforms properly. He sighs with relief, switches knife hands.

The woman pulls her hood back. Her face has eye black, but is otherwise unadorned; she's maybe fifty or sixty, with graying, brown hair bound in a tight herringbone braid, gaunt features (high cheekbones, a hawkish nose), and large, dark eyes. "No one asks a dryad for anything. They make only bargains, in the sacred way, and denying them is ill-advised. Better to avoid them, if you wouldn't be bound to them." She looks at Finch's hand--the one she cut to make the pact a month ago--then August's, now Finch again. She holds out one of her hands: a long, diagonal scar cuts across her palm.

Finch looks at the woman, and the others. She idly lets the bush release the other person. "You're addicted to the sap," she states. She's seen junkies attack people for a fix. She's seen what happens to Ignacio when he doesn't have his drugs. She's seen this behavior, though not as pronounced perhaps. "We're not. Will you die without it?" she asks calmly.

The woman arches an eyebrow. "Aren't you?" Bound to them, she means, not addicted.

"We're not addicted," the spear wielder snarls, finally thrashing free of the bush and snatching up her spear. She plants it end-first in the ground in a plain display of non-violence. For the moment. "But we belong to those dryads. You're not free to make a pact with them, not without making one with us. We are theirs." She seems about to say more, but a sharp look from the woman silences her.

"Okay, hold on," August says, raising his hands. "We have zero intention of doing any such thing." He flicks a glance at Finch which says 'at least we sure don't for purposes of this conversation'.

"You accepted their gift," the woman points out. "When they demanded recompense, you gave it."

"That's because we look after these woods, and we wanted to help the forest. We aren't doing this to be beholden to anyone. We take care of plants on our own," she points out. She gestures again at her plant friend to heal it of the damage the spear wielder did. "We also did it to stop them from hurting people over a tree felled by a storm."

"To aid the forest, to tend the plants, is to be bound to them," the young man says with a sniff. He folds his arms in a truly sulky manner. The spear-wielder grunts in agreement.

The woman studies Finch and August thoughtfully, watches her mend the shrub. The spear-wielder bristles, her posture suggesting Finch doing this is some manner of insult, but the woman holds up a hand, and she subsides.

August glances at Finch, steps forward to offer the cloth-wrapped lumps of ichor. "Like she said. Probably better if we don't have this anyways. You'll have a better idea of how to use it."

Finch nods to August, in agreement with passing off the ichor. "Take it, and get the hell out of here," she says sternly, her dark eyes even darker with the anger she feels..

The woman's mouth twitches in an almost-smile at Finch. She cuts a look to the young man, who stomps over to August and takes the bundle. August gives him a mild, narrowed-eyed look in response, stays quiet otherwise.

At another signal from the woman, the younger two retreat into the trees. The woman surveys the two of them for a time, then says, "You will have to decide if you'll stay as you are, or become like us. There's little room for a space in between." Then she too turns to leave, ghillie suit making her nearly impossible to spot once she's more than a few feet away.

August lets out a breath he hadn't been aware he was holding. "Jesus," he mutters, running a hand over his face. "Good work. I couldn't see those guys for shit."

"What in the hell were they going on about?" Finch asks in a low tone. "Did they get into that whole ichor thing and keep going back for more? Are those dryads going to try to keep pressing us into service?" she asks August with a sharp frown.

August shakes his head, watching the path the two younger (i.e. more violent) ones took. "Not sure. Maybe it's some sort of...sacred deal? The ichor amps them up for things, so they only use it a little at a time?" He sighs, shrugs. "Whatever. Just proves we definitely need to stay away from it."

He turns back towards the truck. "Have to wonder how--"

He doesn't get more than a half-dozen steps before a madrone leans over and swats him, sending him flying a good half-dozen feet. Behind her Finch hears a creaking rustle, and sees a blue spruce lining up to do the same to her.

Dear Madrone, you do NOT beat on a druid's dad of choice. No siree. Finch turns on the tree beating on August with a hiss of breath and she yanks on the threads of life she sees in that tree, withering it into a brittle stick. The angry spruce on her misses, then thumps her good. She doesn't go flying at least. "OW!"

August groans and staggers to his feet, sucking in a breath. Broken ribs for sure. A lot of bruises. The madrone that went after him shrivels on Finch's command, leaving August to watch her dodge the spruce only for it to finally connect. "Goddamnit," August growls, and grabs for the tree. He's not sure what is making it do this, but it's going to stop right goddamned now. And it does; the spruce falls still. Next to August, a maple whips a branch at him, trying to stab him in the shoulder, and he barely jerks aside in time.

Finch isn't so lucky. An Oregon grape next to her whacks her on the shoulder, it's spikey leaves and thick branch tearing her shirt and leaving a nice slash.

"August can you find who's doing this!?" Finch calls out, then she's struck and she makes a pained sound as the gash is open in her shoulder. "We need to get to a clearing!" she insists, and reaches her hand for him to start running.

August grunts when Finch takes that hit, grabs her hand in his. "No--they could be a ways out though. If they're strong enough." None of the suited weirdos earlier had seemed that strong, but who said they were the only ones?

"Yeah. Come on. The road." At least there's a game trail to walk on, but the problem is, it's riddled with tree roots. Many of which begin to move and reach up out of the ground to trip them. "Just keep moving," August says, stumbling and righting himself.

Finch runs along with August, but she stumbles several times, scraping up a knee, an elbow, her shoulder still stinging like the dickens from the prior attack. She keeps up though.

August helps Finch to her feet each time; for once, all his hiking comes in handy, and he's able to dodge most of the roots' attempts to trip him. It's not long before they see August's car between the trees.

But their attacker has one last shot, as they pass through a stand of aspen to get out onto the road, and whomever they are, they take it. Two younger aspens--more limber than the bigger, older trees, faster, too fast to dodge--whip around and strike them, sending them flying out onto the road.

Finch goes airborne, flying out onto the road, and landing hard in a heap near August's Outback. That's gonna leave a mark, or ten. Her shoulder feels out of joint, and a rib or two feel broken. "Fuck me sideways!" she spits out, "What in the actual fuck!? We go out of our way to fucking help people, help the plants, help the animals, and this is the thanks we get!?!!" There is then a stream of cursing in Spanish.

August lays on the asphalt for a few seconds. "Fuck everything," he says after a second, and tries to climb to his feet. It takes him a few tries. He staggers over to the car, sits on the hood heavily, winces at the beating Finch has taken. "Christ. Okay. Hold still a second. We're not...doing Thanksgiving...looking like this." He takes a few steadying breaths, runs his hands over his thighs. Gradually her shoulder pops back into place and some of the bruises heal. She's still a bit banged up, but, she won't look quite so much like she fell out of a moving vehicle. Or like a tree tried to kill her.

Finch climbs to her feet once the pure agony of the shoulder being dislocated is relieved. She lets out a breath. "Thanks. Need any patching up? You got whalloped twice pretty hard back there." She moves to sit on the hood next to him. "Gran and iggy are so gonna freak on us."

"I'm okay," August says. It's a lie, but he can drive. And then pass out at Eleanor's, covered in bruises, and do the drive back to his place to get everything for the meal at Mallard House in the morning. He'll have to take a lot of ibuprofen to get through it all, but he'll manage. He might spend a lot of Thanksgiving sitting on the couch, though.

Actually, laying. Laying on the couch.

"You're a shitty liar," Finch points out, before she stretches out her Spirit to heal up the worst of his wounds. "What the hell are we gonna tell Iggy? He's gonna have heart failure."

August winces as the broken ribs and torn muscles and ligaments mend and some of the bruising fades. He'll still look like he walked into a door, but that's an improvement over 'fell down six flights of stairs'. "Yeah yeah." He waves a hand at her. "Thanks." A moment to appreciate that he didn't hurl when he healed her, though perhaps his mind was too focused on being in pain. Hard to tell.

"We'll tell him..." He sits a second, sighs. "I dunno. We'll figure it out. At the very least, need to warn people, there's some kinda territorial bullshit going on in the forest." He looks over his shoulder at the now-silent trees.

Presently, he says, "Come on. Let's get out of here before they figure out how to walk one."

"Kay boss.," Finch agrees, sliding off the hood to round to the passenger side and climb in. "Hi Iggy, we just got beat up by, I shit you not, trees. I think we'll stick with the old plastic Christmas tree this year. And don't go into the woods. Or like, someone's landscaping, until we figure out what's up."

Grimacing as he sits in the driver's seat, August says, "Someone controlling trees. Those trees were innocent. Not," he holds up a hand, "that I blame you for withering that one that broke my ribs. I'll just...plant another madrone somewhere."

And they're off, to nurse their bruises and sort out how to convince a bunch of sap-crazy treehuggers to fuck off.