Eluriel dresses at dusk.
Up by Philomena’s flower garden, belongings arrayed around her. Not this day wearing the Eastlander sheath in Legion colours that so often she has. It is over simple clothing that she steps into the aged brown trousers of her armour. She reaches down to fasten the ties on the outside of each leg, lifting the jerkin and donning it after rising. Soft and pliable. Brained leather which has stayed that way by dint of the smoking in its creation so long ago in Myth Revain. Quiet and camouflaged.
Sitting for the choice of footwear. But it is not her intent that there be need to dodge blows. Thus are her feet shod in the boots designed to let the wearer walk silently in even the most adverse of conditions. Not that she has the faintest intention of testing their fabled silence over broken glass, lest they come to harm.
Belt now. Not that much of it can be seen beneath the scabbards, hip quiver, and plethora of pouches and potions it suspends. This Eluriel rues as she screws together the two parts of the carved acorn clasp which holds it in place. The green-stained oak leaves carved into the wooden links are hidden all but entirely.
Weapons harness, bow case and shield. Considering them where they lie in the grass. Folly to not have their use if needed. Besides, they ought not get in her way more than a little. Donning them.
Methodical working over her entire body secures each item that it not shift to create noise or catch on things to hinder her movement. Right hand up across her body to silence something tied to the weapons harness high on her chest. Always the last object she would want to have silent. A pang as she feels empty space rather than bird pipes. Pain as the reasons for its absence flood her mind. Pipes whittled on Arandor’s journey south. Such was her happiness as she sat alongside Him then, as the others made what arrangements were needed to find the cure. Memories of the day he made a present of them to her. The many decades where the gentle play of the wind through them let Him know she was near, even when she wished that others know that not. Now it is from him that she hides.
These thoughts in her head, outwards there is but a moment’s pause before she plucks up her camouflage cloak to whirl into place and clasp at her neck. All but identical in appearance to the cloak worn by near all Wolves in times past, it is in truth an old Romani cloak since enchanted.
Eluriel is dressed. Browns for the most part, with some green decoration. Black here and there; these the items which have not required replacement since she came into possession of the brown armour which while ancient is yet new to her.
Casting. Deception. Should it come to pass that she is seen, best it not be as herself, her affiliations.
Servant’s Guise. Forming pictures in her mind of her clothing, weapons and equipment subtly altered to make her appearance unworthy of note. One who relies on concealment and agility for defense, with armour so light as to be but earthy toned clothing. Kuvriel becomes a woodlen half spear and short sword a bone knife. Keenshot to a crude bow which might have been made in the middle of a hunt. The shield is not to appear at all. Adding decorations of wooden beads and acorns that well fit a druid of Rillifane. A short phrase spoken is all it takes for the pictures to become reality.
Colours betray the truth. Camouflage. Eluriel mixes up mud to draw streaks of war paint on her face. Hands moving, she voices the word it takes for her colouring to ripple to match her surroundings. But still the silver streak in her hair. If for whatever reason spells were to fail, this is the one thing sure to betray her identity. Coating it in mud and working it well enough into the rest of her hair that she does not simply replace a silver streak with a muddy one, she wonders why it is that folk never ask of this feature. Perhaps they think it simple vanity, akin to the shimmer of Belmar’s green hair. And with that in mind? Perhaps she ought one day inquire as to why it is that his hair is that shimmering green.
Hair held back in a simple pleat, Eluriel dresses it with feathers and deems her appearance ready. A reclusive wild elf in her forest home doing her best to remain unseen and unknown, she is focused on the skills that matter; stealth, survival, hunting and hiding.
That is the guise of the wild elf. This moon elf has yet more reason to avoid drawing notice. Two more incantations now. Pass Without Trace that there are no impressions left in the ground or scents to betray her presence. This to avoid the terror of that day when in helping to 'win back' the old Romani camp she quietly and invisibly scouted gnoll lands only to have them sniffing at the scent of her skin. Elemental protection put up against the chill of the coming night.
Those four will last a full day. Scent and One with the Land are cast now. They will fall, but it would not do for her to walk close to an unnoticed scout and betray her presence to them. Second casts are held for late morning that they will last to cover her retreat, or before then as prudence dictates.
Dusk turns to night. Well may it be that they watch the Wolf camp. While her elven sight that in moonlight is as keen as on a clear day is so very much better than theirs, best they not hear the gate that they watch for the one who used it. Eluriel hops the fence and lands lightly to draw two belt knives, each made from a single piece of dull, dark iron.
Equipment Commonly Worn: Aged brown leather armour, sturdy boots, glasses, camouflage cloak, fingerless leather gloves, wooden belt with an acorn clasp.
Lore Specialities
Elves
Nature
Power Groups
